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l.i'l Tr'iV .-'•>” Ufti 


_ _■.... ji_ SjT* 


THE FIDDLER BEFORE THE KING. 

“ Everybody was delighted , and the king above all, who, in a few seconds, might 
be seen nodding his head to keep time with the music." — Page 293. 

—Frontispiece. 







































































































TREASURES 


FROM 


FAIRY LAND. 

BY 


r 

ROSSITER W. RAYMOND AND GRACE GREENWOOD. 


24 ILLUSTRATIONS. 


T'W"O VOXiTJMES X2ST OAST EJ. 


* ^0 ...J.Lk Q 

^ . 1R70/ 


1879 / 


% 

op \ii i»s 


NEW YORK: 

THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY, 

39 and 41 CHAMBERS STREET. 




rZ % 


COPYRIGHTED, 1879, BY 


THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY, 



CONTENTS. 

VOL. I. 




Christmas Morning: A War Story, . 

Under Land and Sea : A Story of Adventure, . 

Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and in My Lady's Chamber, 
Hoyty-Toyty ; or. The Ways of the World,. 

Santa Claus in Spite of Himself,. 

Glorio., : A Love Story, ...... 

Two Old Angels : A New England Story . 

The North Sea and the South Sea, .... 
What the Horse said to Hezekiah : An Interview, 

The Christmas Angel: A Story of Blessing, 

The Wrong Stocking: A Story for Fathers, 

The Idea that Flew out of the Fire: A Rainy Day Story 
Poverty Peter : A Story of the Streets , . . . . 

The Palace of the Days : A Dream Story, 

“ X ” : A Christmas Story, , . .. 

Karl, The Fiddler,. 

Two Incidents in Dick’s Life,. 

My Baby and My Bird,. 

The End of Tiptoe’s Tale,. 


9 
31 
55 
78 
104 
114 
138 
164 
176 
193 
202 
214 
226 
245 
255 
285 

295 

305 

313 

































































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Christmas Morning. 


S I sat one evening in my study, every¬ 
body in the house being abed long 
ago, I heard a step outside and a 
modest tap at the window. Opening 
it with some surprise, I was still more 
astonished when I beheld an old man 
wrapped up in a fleecy gown. How 
he came there I could not imagine, and 
had no time to enquire; for he stepped in, as if 
quite at home, and sat down in the arm-chair which 
I keep for intimate friends, who sometimes come to 
bother me while I am at work. 

“ I always did like this den,” said he, as he 
began to throw off his wrappings in a leisurely way. 
“ These attic rooms are just to my taste—so acces¬ 
sible, you know. I’ve been here often when you 
were not at home. May I trouble you to turn 
down that gas? I can’t see what you are writing.” 

The old fellow’s impudence was so impressive 
that I actually got up before I thought what I was 
doing, and nearly extinguished the light. But as I 





io Christmas Morning: 

turned again to face my visitor, I found that I 
could see him quite plainly. He had removed his 
outer gown, and his appearance was very striking. 
He was dressed in dark-blue coat and breeches, 
covered with buttons, and every button was a look- 
ing-glass in a silver frame. His face was large, 
round, and very white. His eyes looked almost 
like two additional buttons to button his head to his 
shoulders; but one was considerably larger than the 
other, and a little out of place besides. As to his 
mouth, it was immense; as for his nose, he had 
none to speak of. I think he was entirely bald ; 
but he took extraordinary care not to show me, by 
any accident, the back of his head—so I cannot be 
positive as to that. 

I thought at first that I was the victim of an 
escaped lunatic, and I was almost sure that such 
was the case when the stranger leaned forward con¬ 
fidentially, and winking at me with his large and 
dislocated eye, remarked with some show of embar¬ 
rassment : “ I have called, sir, to enquire the way 
to Norridge.” 

“ No such place anywhere about here,” said I; 
“and what’s more there never was.” 

“ Dear me! ’ replied the old man, “ I must have 
come too soon. Strange now, that I should always 
make that mistake. Of course I can’t go to Nor- 
ridge till there is such a place.” 


A War Story. 


ii 


At these words I recognized him instantly. 
“ You old impostor,” said I, with sternness, “ you 
can’t come here with that game. It was played 
out long ago. When I was a little boy, you were 
going about, poking into people’s rooms and prying 
into their business; and whenever you got caught, 
or unexpectedly found the master of the house at 
home, you pretended you only wanted to know the 
way to Norridge, and apologized for having come so 
soon. You are old enough to know better than to 
steal about in this way. As for your story about 
Norridge, it’s all moonshine.” 

The hoary reprobate listened to my reproof with 
placid approval, and even winked facetiously at the 
strong points. When I got through, he said, in a 
reflective tone: “ That meddling Mother Goose! ” 

I couldn’t help admiring the old fellow’s seren¬ 
ity ; and it struck me that an ancient vagabond and 
busybody like him might have a good deal that was 
interesting to tell, if one could only draw him out. 
So I changed my tone of virtuous indignation, and 
began to open a friendly chat. “And you are the 
man in the moon,” said I ; “ pray how did you 

come down ? ” 

t 

“ Slid on a beam,” replied the man in the moon; 
“ banisters—vou know the trick—good deal better 
than stairs—besides, there aren’t any stairs. It’s 
banisters or nothing.’ , 


i 


12 


Christmas Morning: 


“ But how do you manage to leave your post? 
I shouldn’t think you could be spared.” 

“ Little bit of a new moon. Don’t need me.” 

“ Well, what makes you go about in this way, 
peering into people’s windows, and looking over their 
papers to read secrets that don t concern you ? ” 

“ Good! ” said the man from frhe moon, “ I like 
you. You are the first one that has said a sensi¬ 
ble thing to me for six thousand years. They talk 
to me a good deal; but it is generally all nonsense, 
beginning ‘ O thou ! ’ Now how would you like to 
have everybody spouting such trash at you ? I tell 
you, it’s mighty tiresome business. All that I can 
do to amuse myself is to watch the goings on. I 
can’t help knowing a good many secrets from my 
official position. Bless you ! I have had the first 
news of all the love-affairs that ever were. I knew 
’em all, from Adam and Eve down to the pretty 
girl—uncommon pretty girl—that you took to an 
astronomical lecture the other night. Bright idea 
that, to go home the longest way—but not new. 
Says she, looking up at me, * Did you ever see any¬ 
thing so lovely?’ and says you, looking down at 
her, says you—” 

“ Never mind that,” said I in some haste, cov¬ 
ering at the same time a sheet of note-paper on 
which I had been practising the most ornamental 
ways of writing Isabella , “ tell me about yourself.” 


A War Story . 


13 


“Well, you see,” replied my venerable visitor, 
“ sometimes I get a little interested in a story 
(though they are very much alike), and then I am 
apt to pry about a little to get the whole of it. 
What right have folks to tell me half of their silly 
secrets, and try to hide the rest ? Besides, there’s 
no harm in my knowing. I never tell. Not that 
I couldn’t tell many a good story, if the people 
had the sense to listen.” 

“ But after all,” I remarked, “ you only find out 
half that goes on. You can’t watch in the daytime; 
and you must miss the best part of the news.” 

“ I take the Morning Sun,” replied he, “ to say 
nothing of the Evening Star.” This was, of course, 
conclusive. The old man must certainly hear of 
everything that happened, and a great deal that did 
not. “ I don’t want any of that news,” I contin¬ 
ued ; “ but I wish you would explain one or two 
points to me. The professor, at that lecture the 
other night, said you never in your life had turned 
your back to the world, and that there was a great 
deal of discussion as to the side which you keep 
so carefully concealed. Now I wish you would do 
me the favor to turn around for a minute.” 

“ Certainly,” said he, “ anything to oblige you.” 
And with that he rose and turned his back to me. 
The moment he did this, the room became pitch- 
dark, and I couldn’t see a thing. Presently he 


H 


Christmas Morning: 


revolved his face to me again, and with a malicious 
grin said he hoped I was satisfied. 

“Not at all,” said I, indignantly, “you have 
played me a trick. Why couldn’t I see your backP’V 

“ Because,” replied the old fellow in a confiden¬ 
tial whisper, “I haven’t got any. No back, no 
body, no legs. I am nearly all cheek.” And, sure 
enough, I noticed that his round, flat face was all 
I could distinctly see. The blue coat and buttons 
seemed to dangle from it like a suit of clothes hung 
out for sale. As he spoke, he sat down again— 
that is, the clothes laid themselves across the seat 
and back of the chair, and the sleeves of the coat 
flapped down on the cushioned arms, while the bald 
old doughface gleamed tranquilly above the whole. 

“Well,” I continued, “you can tell me, at least, 
what you have to do with tides, earthquakes, and 
the weather.” 

“ Business is business, young man,” said he, “ and 
that’s mine. I don’t mind saying, however, that 
all this scientific talk is absurd. How would you 
feel if people squinted at you through a spy-glass, 
made out your eyes to be craters, and your nose 
a mountain, and wondered what your wrinkles could 
be? I bother ’em a little, I fancy, making faces at 
them, when I catch them at their impertinent occu¬ 
pation. Some of these nights I’ll sneeze; and then 
there’ll be a commotion among the philosophers ! 


A War Story; 


15 


‘Traces of eruptions on my face’—a pretty story! 
Let them look at their old earth, breaking out every 
little while, and no end of sulphur rubbed into its 
skin ! ” 

I saw that the Veteran Observer was working him¬ 
self up into a feeble rage, and I hastened to ft urn 
his thoughts in a new direction. “ Respected sir,” 
quoth I, “you have said that many an interesting 
story has revealed itself to your watchful gaze. 
Could you not relate to me a Christmas tale ? ” 

“ Eighteen hundred and sixty-nine of them,” 
chuckled he ; “ which will you have ? ” 

“ Whichever you like best,” I replied promptly, 
and prepared to take notes of what he said. When 
my guest observed this, he coolly arose, dangled 
across the room, and seated , his clothes all in a bunch 
on my shoulder, with his shiny old poll on the top, 
so that he could conveniently overlook what I wrote. 
“ That’s right,” said I, making the best of what I 
couldn’t help, “ give me the light of your countenance.” 

It was a clear, cold night, and the earth looked 
so downright lovely that, if I had not been the 
man in the moon, I should have chosen at once to 
be a man of the world. Midnight was already near, 
and I had navigated to the highest place in the 
sky, and set all the looking-glasses in the estab¬ 
lishment so as to get plenty of light, in order that 


16 Christmas Morning: 

nothing could escape my notice. The lakes shone 
like polished silver; the woods themselves, though 
they locked arms together and put up their big 
umbrellas, could not keep out the brightness that 
I showered upon them. Everything was motionless 
and silent except the rivers that rippled gently 
along, taking care to wake nobody, and the great 

sea, that never can keep still, and snores and 

tosses even in its sleep. 

Right beneath me were two great camps. I 

could see the thousands of white tents, and the 
flags that hung unstirred by any wind. The armies 
were buried in slumber, and the only signs of life were 
gleams of light here and there from the quarters 
of high officers, who were perhaps anxiously dis¬ 

cussing the plans and chances of the future, and 
from the hospitals, where both pain and love had 
banished rest. The quiet scene seemed strangely^ 
out of harmony with ideas of war and violent 
death. It exactly suited my taste. There’s nothing 
I like better to look upon than repose. If I had 
my way, there should be nothing on earth more 
turbulent than the opening of a night-blooming 
cereus, or the upspringing of a fine mushroom, 
except perhaps now and then a breeze to shake 
the flecked shadows in the forest glades, or a 
misty cataract to catch my lunar rainbows. (That’s 
a fine sentence; I hope you have got it down pro- 


A War Story. 


J 7 


perly. You see I haven’t listened to odes and 

apostrophes all these centuries without acquiring a 
command of language !) 

But alas! between the camps was a field which, 
though as still and peaceful as the rest, told a 
terrible story. It was a battle-field, and the 

wounded had been removed ; but the dead re¬ 
mained, turning up to me faces paler than my 

own, faces upon which had passed the ghastly dim¬ 
ness of eclipse. If you men must kill one another, 
why do you leave your corpses to stare in that 
horrible way at the moon ? Many thousands have 
I gazed upon since I shuddered and shrank from 
the dying eyes of Abel. All other sights are grown 
familiar to me ; but this one remains as freshly 

mysterious in its dread, repulsive fascination as at 
the first. When I once turn my glances upon it, 
I keep them there, though I would fain escape the 

vision. To-night it seemed to me more awful than 

ever. The dark border of evergreens that framed 
the picture, and the light snow that was so spot¬ 
less—white in many places, and so trampled and 
stained where the battle-wave had passed over it, 
intensified by their quiet beauty the horrors of the 
scene. The air was mild and balmy, though it 

was mid-winter. 

As I gazed reluctantly upon the slain, I caught 
a lustre which was not reflected from rippling wave 


18 Christmas Morning: 

or fluttering leaf. I knew it well; it was the 
gleam of moonlight upon steel. A sentinel was 
walking to and fro beneath the shadowy trees at 
the edge of the wood, and looking keenly out 
across the field. At this point it was narrow, and 
opposite to the sentinel, the flashing of whose 
rifle-barrel I had observed, another forest came 
down to the border of the open ground. Into this 
I now gazed intently, for I suspected that the 
darkness concealed another soldier at his post of 
danger. Several times I fancied that I discerned a 
movement in the dusk; but I had almost satisfied 
myself that my eyes (which have been a little 
watery now and then for a few hundred years past) 
were deceiving me, when suddenly the first vidette 
raised his rifle to his shoulder and took deliberate 
aim at the opposite thicket. I waited for him to 
fire, and the silence seemed deeper than ever. 

Nothing is quite so still, you know, as the instant 
when you expect a man to shoot. But the sen¬ 
tinel, though perhaps he had seen something indis¬ 

tinctly, appeared to be waiting for a better oppor¬ 
tunity before disturbing the quiet night with a 
shot. 

Half a mile away there was a country village, 
comprising a score of white houses and a church 
with a shining spire. The houses were riddled with 
shot and shell, and apparently deserted; and half 


A War Story . 


19 


the church was in ruins from a recent fire; but 
the spire was standing, as bright and fair as ever; 
and the clock in the belfry was unharmed, though 
the sexton lay dead across the thrq^hold. I had 
known the old man for many a year. We were 
fond of each other in a quiet way. It was his 
fancy to wind the clock by moonlight, and after¬ 
wards to put his gray head out of the belfry win¬ 
dow, and fold his arms on the window-sill, while 
he finished his pipe, with many a friendly nod to 
me. Now he lay dead at the foot of the tower, 
with the key in his hand ; and the clock was almost 
run down. 

All this I saw while I waited for the sentry to 
fire into the thicket ; but of course he saw nothing 
of it. He stood like a statue, his keen glance, with 
his fatal weapon, pointed at the hiding-place of his 
enemy. 

Then the clock, with a last effort of its failing 
strength, began to strike. One ! TWO ! THREE ! —very 
strong and clear— FOUR ! FIVE ! SIX !—still full and 
sweet— SEVEN ! EIGHT ! NINE !—failing, but more 
musical than ever— ten ! ELEVEN !—fainter, feebler— 
TWELVE !—a whispered cadence of infinite melody— 
and the clock was dead, too ; but the air was full 
of the memory of its sweet, last word. 

The sentry heard the tender, familiar sounds, and 
could not but pause to listen. Involuntarily he 


20 


Ch ristmas Morn ing : 


counted the strokes of the bell; slowly he lowered 
his rifle; and as the last notes died away, he leaned 
against the trunk of a tree, absorbed in thought, 
and forgetful of the stern duty of the present 
moment. 

The hidden foe was evidently able to see more 
clearly than he was seen ; for at this instant he did 
what would have been fatal to him a few seconds 
before. The thicket suddenly parted, and a soldier 
came boldly forward into the open field, holding up 
both his hands to show that he was unarmed, and 
shouting in a loud, joyful tone, “ Christmas morn¬ 
ing ! I wish you a merry Christmas! ” 

The sentry, who had been but just before thirst¬ 
ing for his blood, started at the words, hesitated 
for an instant, then dropped his rifle, and hastened 
to meet the stranger half-way, with a cordial grasp 
of the hand. 

“ Lucky you didn’t step out a minute sooner,” 
said he, “ I would have made a hole in you.” 

“ Not likely,” said the new-comer, “ I’ve had the 
top of your head covered for' five minutes past; 
but I got thinking of things, and then that bell 
came, and I couldn’t shoot a fellow Christmas 
morning, you know. I say, have you got any chil¬ 
dren at home ? They’re about filling the stockings 
now, I expect, while the youngsters are abed! ” 

“Mine’s a boy,” said Number One. “Just look 


A War Story. 


21 


at this, will you? Never saw a boy to beat that!” 
And in a moment more the two enemies were 

comparing carte de visite photographs in the moon¬ 
light. 

Meanwhile, the scene, lately so desolate and 

silent, began to be full of forms and voices. One 

after another, taking courage from the example of 
the first two, the pickets on either side threw down 
their arms, and advanced with shouts of Merry 
Christmas! to shake hands in this odd midnight 
truce. Then detachments from the larger guards 
began to arrive, charged to enquire into the nature 
of the disturbance; and when they arrived, they 

joined the rest, until there were in friendly groups 
on the late field of battle some hundreds of sol¬ 
diers, as brotherly as if they never had been other¬ 
wise. For a while they chatted together, and then 
the whisper went round, “ Let us bury our dead ! ” 
Tenderly they laid the bodies of their fallen com¬ 
rades into graves; and they made no distinction 
between friend and foe. This sacred work was 
nearly finished, when an officer came up at a gallop. 
He was making the round of the pickets to see if 
every man was at his post and properly vigilant. 
When he perceived so large a body of his men 
mingling with those of the enemy, he was indignant 
and alarmed. Riding up to a captain, he asked 
him sternly what this all meant. The captain was 


22 


Christmas Morning: 


frightened enough to be caught in such proceedings 
by his commander; but he put a bold face on it, 
and said: “ No fighting to-day, you know, General; 
it’s Christmas!” 

“ Yes, General,” shouted the soldiers, gathering 
around him, <£ it’s Christmas on both sides!” “Si¬ 
lence ! ” thundered the General. “ Go back to your* 
posts, every one of you, and fire smartly into those 
fellows! Captain, you are under arrest, and you 
shall be tried by court-martial in an hour.” But 
the soldiers crowded around closer, and cried, “ No 
arrests, no court-martial, no fighting to-day. We 
have given our word. If you try to break it, we 
will carry you over to the other side, and leave 
you as a prisoner! ” The word ran through the 
crowd, was caught up by neighboring bodies of 
soldiery, passed on from post to post and bivouac 
to bivouac, until it could be heard echoing through 
the whole camp: “No fighting on Christmas day!” 

The General was brave and strict ; but he saw 
that he could not control the strange enthusiasm of 
peace which had seized his whole army. Indeed, I 
am not sure but he caught a little of the contagious 
feeling himself, for he had received that very night 
a bundle of letters from home, and through a crack 
in his tent I saw him kissing a photograph just 
before coming out to visit the picket-line. But 
whether he was really affected or not, he seemed to 


A War Story. 


23 


make up his mind at once that he must yield to his 
army, and with as good a grace as possible. 

“ Christmas morning ! Bless me, so it is! ” said 
the General, very jovially. “ That alters the case. 
But, boys, it will never do to allow this confusion. 
Let every man get back to his post, and the 
captain here shall go over with a flag, and we will 
ask for a Christmas truce.” 

In five minutes both parties had retired to the 
woods, and I turned on an extra concave reflector, 
by the light of which the general wrote a message to 
the opposing commander. All this while I had been 
watching the other camp, and now I saw the general 
of that army likewise preparing a message. The 
fact was, each of them had found out that his men 
would not fight because it was Christmas, and each 
was hastening to get the other to consent to a truce. 
Very soon two white flags appeared on the two sides 
of the ’field, and the two parties, advancing, met in 
the centre, exchanged their despatches, and returned 
for replies. At the same moment each general 
opened the letter of his adversary, and said, “ Why, 
they want a truce, too 1 What a pity I didn’t wait 
a little! But no ; it is better, as it is. We will 
have a real merry Christmas!” However, each wrote 
a despatch to his king, saying, “ Sire, at one o’clock 
this morning the enemy asked for a truce of twenty- 
four hours, which I have granted. Our troops are 




24 


Ch ristmas Morn ing: 


in excellent spirits.” Away went the telegrams, and 
the newspapers in two countries went to press at 
three in the morning with headings in large type: 
'‘Extra! Tiie End of the War Approaching!! 
The Enemy asks for an Armistice !!! Excel¬ 
lent Condition of our Victorious Army !!! ” 

Meanwhile, all was joy and good feeling in the 
two camps. The soldiers mingled freely together. 
No one remained in bed, and all were determined 
to make the most of the precious Christmas hours. 
The two generals walked arm-in-arm over the plain, 
through the woods, and out to the ruined church 
in the village. There they stood on the steps, and 
gazed upon the destroyed and deserted houses, and 
upon the prostrate form of the white-haired old sex¬ 
ton; They were both old men likewise; and the 
sight of the venerable victim, slain by an accidental 
shot as he was going faithfully, in spite of danger, 
to discharge his nightly duty, affected them profoundly. 

“ I have been forty years a soldier,” said one, 
“and I have seen a hundred battles, but war never 
seemed to me so dreadful as now. I would give 
all my decorations to see that old man restored to 
life, going up the tower-stairs once more to wind 
his beloved clock.” 

“Yes, war is hideous,” replied the other; “we 
soldiers know that best. It is the people who stay 
at home, kings and statesmen, who begin wars, and 


A War Story . 


2 5 


keep them going. If the matter were left to you 
and me, we could easily settle it ; and the troops, 
brave as they are, would gladly see this Christmas 
truce become a Christian peace. Besides, there is 
nothing to be gained on either side by continuing 
the struggle. Pray, what are we fighting for?” 

“ To see which will give up first,” returned the 
other general. 

“ Why cannot both give up together ? An idea 
strikes me. Let us send despatches to-night to our 
governments, urging them to make immediate 
peace.” 

Quite enraptured with this plan, the two gene¬ 
rals separated, and hastened each to his tent, in 
which was his private field-telegraph office. As for 
me, I looked far away to a stately capital, where 
a midnight meeting of a king and his ministers was 
being held. 

“ Always more men and more money! ” sighed 
the king. “ My poor subjects will have but brief 
rejoicing in the morning over the truce; we shall 
have to announce in the afternoon a new conscrip¬ 
tion and heavier taxes. A sad Christmas! Ah! 
gentlemen, if we had known the cost in blood and 
treasure of this unhappy war, we should have been 
glad to leave matters as they were ! It was not so 
bad, after all. Everything was comfortable enough, 
except the 1 balance of power,’ whatever that is.” 


2 6 


Christmas Morning: 


“And the rectification of the frontiers, your 
Majesty/’ interposed the Minister of War. 

“ Oh! yes,” replied the sovereign, bitterly, “ the 
rectification of our frontiers! Well, we’ve marked 
them thoroughly with graves. The towns are de¬ 
stroyed and the people are killed. I begin to think 
I would rather rule over a prosperous and happy 
province than over a desolated continent. If terri¬ 
tory is all we want, we could buy Sahara for less 
than this war has cost. However, of course we 
cannot give up now. We must not sue for peace 
after having begun the war.” 

At this moment confidential despatches from the 
army were announced ; and the Minister of War 
read them aloud (I looking in through the window, 
over his shoulder, to see that all was correctly given 
—you can’t trust these Ministers of War!) 

“ In addition to the general message forwarded an 
hour ago, announcing a truce, I would earnestly 
urge the conclusion of an immediate peace, on any 
terms; and I am confident that the enemy is equally 
anxious to terminate a terrible and useless conflict. 
The temper of the troops is such that I cannot 
desire to lead them again into action. I do not 
say that I fear treachery or cowardice; but the truce 
now in progress, added to the effect which the popu¬ 
lar feeling at home has produced on the minds of 
the soldiers, reveals a unanimous demand for peace, 


A War Story . 


2 7 


O dam/ 


in which I believe the government will sympathize, 
as I certainly do myself. In testimony of which, I 
hereby offer my resignation, if hostilities are to be 
renewed.” 

“ That is treason!” said the Minister of War. 

“ Yes,” replied the King sadly, “ I suppose it is 
treason, because my subject speaks it. But WHAT 
IF I SHOULD SAY IT MYSELF ! ” 

There was 3n awkward silence for a few minutes, 
broken at last by the arrival of another despatch. 
This was addressed to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, 
who read it aloud. It was from the capital of the 
nation with which they were at war, though (the 
direct telegraphic communication being destroyed) it 
had come by a roundabout road. But what’s the 
difference, when lightning once starts with a bit of 
news, whether it goes straight or not ? In fact, it 
prefers a zigzag course, I suppose, because it has so 
much time to spare. The despatch was brief. I have 
heard that the minister who sent it prepared at first 
a long and elaborate one, introducing a lot of ready¬ 
made learning and eloquence which he kept on hand 
for such occasions, but his sovereign gave it back to 
him three times, telling him every time to “ boil it 
down.” So in its final form it was merely: 

“ LET US HAVE PEACE.” 

The reading of this produced a great change in 


28 


Ch ristmas Morn ing : 


the council. “ Now we can proceed with dignity/’ 
said the Minister of War, much relieved, for he felt 
that he had come within a hair of losing his place. 
All the other ministers hastened to agree with him, 
and in a few minutes they had worked themselves 
up into such a zealous desire for peace that you 
would have thought they were life-long Quakers. 

“ We must take them at their word, before they 
change their minds,” said the Minister of Foreign 
Affairs. “ If your Majesty please, I have here a full 
discussion of the points in dispute, commencing with 
the status quo ante bellum —” 

“ What’s that ? ” said the king, who was rusty in 
Latin. 

“ * The position in which we were before the war/ 
may it please your Majesty,” replied the learned 
statesman. 

“ It pleases me so well that I don’t want to hear 
another word,” cried the king. “ I’ll write this de¬ 
spatch myself. / know what I want.” 

So he wrote in large letters, “ Status QUO ANTE 
BELLUM,” and sent it off in a hurry. 

“ After all,” remarked the Minister of Foreign 
Affairs to the 'Minister of War, “that expresses the 
gist of the matter; and I am glad it’s over.” 

The king signed the despatch with his own name, 
and addressed it direct to his royal brother. 

“ We’ll have no red-tape about this business,” 


A War Story . 


29 


said he. “ Peace before daylight—that’s what I’m 
after! ” 

In an hour back came an answer. When kings 
once wake up to business, they can telegraph as fast 
as brokers. This one said: “With ALL MY HEART. 
Don’t wait for particulars. Merry Christmas! 
10 paid ” 

The last wQrds were those of the telegraph ope¬ 
rator. who, of course, marked all despatches after that 
style in the lower left-hand corner but he had sur¬ 
rounded his business memorandum with a magnificent 
wild flourish, to express his joy. The king and his 
grave councillors laughed heartily at the enthusiastic 
operator; but in their hearts every man of them was 
happy enough to cut a pigeon-wing. 

Then the couriers rode, and the presses began 
again on new extra editions; but the good news 
sped faster than it could be carried by human 
hands; for the beautiful feet of the morning made 
haste upon the mountains, bringing the glad tidings 
of great joy. 

My watch was over, and I retired as dawn ap¬ 
proached ; but I was followed long by the echoes of 
jubilant praise and prayer, of songs and laughter, 
and merry Christmas greetings round the world. 

The Man of the Moon had really so fascinated 
me with his part humorous, part pathetic, part 



30 


Christmas Morning: 


satirical rhapsody, chanting it, as he did, in a low 
monotone, that I quite omitted to notice how absurd 
it was. When he had finished, however, I recovered 
at once my usual good sense, and remarked: 

“What a farrago of nonsense! No such thing 
ever happened. You needn’t try to make me believe 
that armies will stop fighting, and generals become 
chicken-hearted, and governments sacrifice great ques¬ 
tions, just because an old clock strikes twelve, and 
folks happen to recall that it is the 25th of De¬ 
cember. You don’t know any more of political 
economy than you do of military science. Any 
newspaper editor could teach you better. Such a 
lunatic ought to live in the moon; he isn’t fit for 
this world.” 

“ I see how it is,” said my visitor, while a cloud 
of sadness settled upon his open countenance. “ I 
don’t suppose you can understand me; I must have 
come down too soon! I think you said, sir, that you 
couldn’t tell me the way to Norridge? Ah, well! 
I might have known by that! ” 

He was gone. The morning had dawned; and 
down in the street I heard the newsboys crying an 
extra with “ A Glorious Victory ” on one side, and 
“ Immense Slaughter” on both. The wild moon-vision 
of peace is yet too soon for the living, and already, 
alas! too late for the dead. 


Under Land and Sea. 


HEN I was a boy about eight years 
old, I used to swim in the bay that 
ran up from the sea near our house. 
I was not at all afraid of the water; 
I could dive and stay out of sight 
a long time, and then come up to 
the surface, snorting and puffitfg, 
and strike out for the shore. There 
was one place in the bay so deep that none of the 
boys had ever reached the bottom by diving. They 
used to try every day; but before they got to the 
bottom the force of their spring would be spent, 
and the water would buoy them back again to the 
surface. It was said that a ship had sunk there, 
with ever so much money on board; and we all 
longed to get down and see if it was so. After 
thinking over the matter a great deal, I determined 
to attempt it in a new way. So one day, when a 
number of us were in the water together, I took a 
heavy stone in my two hands, and jumped overboard 
from the old scow that we used to have with us. 



31 








3 2 


Under Land and Sea : 


You see, I meant to let the weight of the stone 
carry me to the bottom, and then, when I wanted 
to rise again, I could drop the stone, and come up 
without difficulty. 

It seemed to me that I was a long time going 
down. I held my breath, of course; but I kept my 
eyes open, and could see quite well. The water over¬ 
head was at first of a lovely light green color, which 
grew darker and darker as I got further away from 
the light of heaven. The pressure of the water in¬ 
creased till it made my head ache; and, in spite of 
my resolution, I had almost resolved to let go the 
weight and give up my adventure, when my feet 
touched the bottom. Sure enough, there was the 
wreck of a schooner. The masts had been cut away, 
but the hull was there, lying on one side. I had 
no time to make any further explorations; for I felt 
unable to hold my breath any longer. So I dropped 
the stone from my hands, in order to ascend to 
daylight and air. Alas! something held my feet, so 
that I could not rise. Looking down I saw an im¬ 
mense lobster. He had got each foot in a pair of 
his jaw-nippers, and taken a double turn of his tail 
around a piece of rock. His eyes stuck out of his 
head half an inch on each side with glee, and he 
wriggled them at me in the most horrible manner. 
That is the only way in which lobsters can wink, 
you know. 





























































































l 




















/ : J 
























IS 

15 ® 




THE DROWNED DIVER. 

“ When I opened my eyes again I was lying on the deck of the ship and the lobster 
was bathing my face with a bottle of cologne-water .”—Page 33. 



















































A Story of Adventure. 


33 


I was in great fear, as you may well believe; 
but in a few seconds my pain was even greater than 
my fear. I could not open my mouth to speak, but 
I tugged fiercely to get away, and cried loudly within 
myself, without making any noise at all, just as 
people do in the nightmare. I felt a dreadful pres¬ 
sure on my head; I was choking for want of breath; 
everything whirled about me. In the midst of my 
anguish I heard the fiendish old lobster say; “ It 
•will all be over in twenty seconds more. He's a 
tough one, and it takes him a good while to get 
acclimated ; but nobody stays in these parts more 
than three minutes without getting used to it. His 
head is swimming already.” With that he laughed 
a horrid laugh, and I swooned away. 

When I opened my eyes again I was lying on 
the deck of the ship, and the lobster was bathin 
my face with a bottle of cologne-water. [“ 

grandfather ! we don t believe that ! ” “I remem 
it very well , my dears; it was a bottle he founu 
the cabin of the wreck. Half of it he had put 
my face , and half he had drunk, and it made 
him very jolly .”] “ There,” said he, as I sat up, 

“ now you will do nicely. Let’s see you walk. So; 
that’s pretty well, only you should sidle gracefully, 
as I do.” 

Indeed, I found to my surprise that I felt quite 
well, I could move freely, and speak; and I felt 


34 


Under Land and Sea: 


no necessity of breathing at all. At once I sprang 
upwards, intending to return to the surface of the 
bay; but the lobster was too quick for me. In an 
instant he had me by the foot again. “ Let me 
go!” said I. 

“Certainly,” said he; “you may go if r you like; 
but you must listen to me first, and then choose.” 

So he made me sit down again, and sat down 
on his tail by my side, putting one of his flippers 
around my arm in a friendly but firm fashion. 

“You see, young man, you are what they call 
drowned. That is to say, you have got used to 

living under water, and if you return to the surface 
you’ll probably die. I’ll tell you just what your 
chances are. You will rise and float about on the 
top of the water. If your friends happen to see 
you, they will pull you out, wrap you in blankets, 
ound on you, roll you over, blow into you with a 
dlows, and finally give it up, and bury you. If 

:y don’t happen to see you, then we get you 

ain.” 

“ What do you do with folks when you get ’em 
again ? ” I asked. 

“ Salad,” replied the lobster, with a leer. “ They 
make excellent salad. I’m almost sorry I told you 
anything about it; but you see I have been drink¬ 
ing, and when a lobster is in liquor it makes him 
good-natured—that is, any liquor but hot water. 


A Story of A dventure . 


35 


Now, if you choose to try it, you can go up and 
take your chances. Perhaps they may get air into 
you again with that bellows flummery, but it isn’t 
very likely. On the other hand, if you stay down 
here, you’ll have lots of fun.” 

“ Can I never get back to the dry land again ? ” 

I asked. 

“Well,” replied the lobster, “there’s a way, I 
believe; but you’ll have to find it out from some¬ 
body that knows it. The turtles are the best ones 
to tell you.” 

After a little more conversation, I promised to 
stay awhile with my new acquaintance and be intro¬ 
duced to his friends, though I made a strong reso¬ 
lution to return to mankind and breathe air again, 
as soon as I could find out how to do it safely. 

Just at this point a white body appeared above 
us, swiftly descending through the water. I saw 
at once that it was one of my companions, diving 
to see what had become of me. The lobster started 
up eagerly, made a spring, and caught my friend by 
the foot; but either because he was tipsy, or be¬ 
cause he was in such a hurry, he forgot to belay 
his tail; and in an instant the swimmer shot upward, 
carrying the unfortunate loibster with him. These 
crusty fellows never have the wit to let go of any¬ 
thing after they have once taken hold ; and my ac¬ 
quaintance was less discreet than usual. So he let 


36 Under Land and Sea: 

himself be dragged up, like a fool. But I shall never 
forget his despairing shriek when he perceived that 
he was going to pot. 

I was now left alone ; but the fear of being found 
drowned if I should ascend to the surface made me 
decide to stay below for a while at least, and study 
the ways of the water-folk, until I could discover 
the proper manner of returning. First of all, I de¬ 
scended into the cabin of the wreck. There were 
no bodies there. Evidently the crew had escaped. 
The boxes and cupboards were open, and a good 
many things were heaped on the floor ready to be 
removed; but they had all been left behind. So 
the crew must have escaped in a hurry after all. Pro¬ 
bably their boat was destroyed in trying to launch 
it, and they had to take to spars and planks. The 
things they left behind were damaged by the water 
and filled with slime; but I rinsed out a light 

waterproof shirt and trousers, which I put on ; be¬ 
cause, even under water, one should wear something 
—if not scales or a shell, then clothes. 

I found also a great chest full of money and 

precious stones. It was my first impulse to fill my 
pockets with them; but I reflected that I could 
have no use for them where I was, nor take more 
than an extremely small portion of them in that 
way; so I resolved to leave this wealth where I 

had found it, and go after it in the future, if I 


A Story of Advenhire. 37 

should ever be so happy as to return to the upper 
world. But I put a jack-knife in my pocket. 

After satisfying my curiosity as to the contents 
of the cabin, I returned to the deck, and feeling 
rather lonesome I tried to open conversation with a 
row of young lady oysters, who sat along the bul¬ 
warks, like girls at a dance waiting for partners. 
But I soon found that they didn’t know how to do 
anything but smile. That they did in a startling 
way, opening their mouths back to their ears, and 
further too, and displaying their pearls. Nothing 
that I could say induced them to talk. They just 
smiled in that empty-headed way until they got tired 
of my attentions, and then they yawned. So I took 
the hint and left them to their own company, while I 
wandered away in search of more sensible acquaintances. 

These I soon found, in a crowd of fish, who 
were playing tag, leap-frog, and follow-my-leader in 
the liveliest manner. Addressing myself to one of 
the brightest-looking, who had withdrawn a moment 
to wipe the perspiration from his scales, and take an 
accidental kink out of his back-fin, I enquired of 
him concerning the party. 

“ Oh! this is the annual picnic of our school,” 
he said. “ We belong to the celebrated blue-coat 
school, so called on account of the uniform.” 

“ But if this is a picnic,” said I, “ where are your 
refreshments ? ” 


38 


Under Land and Sea : 


“Our what?" asked the bluefish, opening his gills 
with astonishment. 

“Your refreshments—things to eat.” 

“ Oh! grub" replied he, with a dull twinkle in 
his eye; “ that’s what you mean. Well, for the 
matter of that, we find it as we go along. Princi¬ 
pally small fry, you know. A nibble at a minnow 
now and then, at the mouth of a river, is very 
delicate and wholesome diet. And once in a while 
we thin out.” 

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. 

“ Eat up a certain number of the scholars,” he 
answered, as if it was a matter of course. “You 
see, when there are too many of us, if nobody will 
come to thin us out, we thin ourselves out. It is 
the only way I know. You know we are not so 
able to support ourselves as those aristocrats that 
own the banks.” 

“ What aristocrats and what banks ? ” said I. 

“ The codfish aristocracy and the banks of New¬ 
foundland,” replied my new friend. 

[“ O grandfather! you made that up yourself." 

“ On the contrary, I remember it very well, my 
dears; and, moreover, I could not possibly have made 
it up ; for it is a poor joke, only worthy of a sprained 
bluefish .”] 

At this interesting point in the conversation I 
began to be afraid these ferocious fellows would take 


A Story of Adventure. 


39 


the notion to eat me, although, as there was only 
one of me, I could not fairly be accused of being 
too numerous. Fortunately, however, just as I was 
glancing with some apprehension on a throng of 
hungry-looking members of the school, who had sur¬ 
rounded me and were smelling and nosing me in 
a grub-thirsty way, I observed a great commotion 
among them. They turned tail with one accord, 
and, squeaking “Shark, shark!’’ sculled away as fast 
as possible. In another moment I beheld the brown 
coat, light vest, and fine, prominent features of a 
shark, who was eagerly pursuing the flying blues. 
As he shot swiftly by me, I got one gleam of en¬ 
quiry from his small, cruel eyes, and this seemed to 
arouse his curiosity and wonder; for, horrible to 
relate, he paused in his headlong course, turned, and 
came slowly back towards me. 

I pulled out my jack-knife, and prepared to fight. 
I was not much frightened, for I saw very soon that 
this was not a ‘ man-eater,” and, though he might 
possibly attack me he could not, like one of his 
bigger-mouthed cousins, bite me in two at one snap 
and swallow me in two gulps. I would have made 
a good many mouthfuls for him. But I had no 
desire to lose even so much as a nose or a finger 
in the fight. I resolved to attempt, by a well-directed 
blow, to drive my knife through his eye into his 
brain. But, unfortunately, sharks are so made that 


40 


Under Lci7id a?id Sea : 


their noses travel some distance ahead of their eyes. 

When they want to bite, they have to turn side- 

wise, so as to give their mouths a chance. So this 
shark’s nose was close upon me before I got a chance 
to strike at his eye. At that instant he turned up 
his ugly mouth, and took a nip at me as he passed. 
I struck, but missed his eye, and my knife stuck 
fast in his tough old skull, and was jerked out of 

my hand. I had lost my weapon, and not hurt 

my enemy to speak of, while he had got a-consi¬ 
derable piece out of my chin. You can see the 
scar yet. 

[“ O grandfather! that's nothing but a dimple . 
We've all got dimples just like it! " 

“ Very likely , my dears; when a wound of that 
kind gets into a family, it is apt to become heredi¬ 
tary ! But if you don't believe my story , this is a 
good place to stop." 

“ Oh / PLEASE, grandfather / ”] 

Well, where was I ? Ah, I remember! No, on 
the whole I don’t exactly remember what happened 
next. I never could quite explain it even to my¬ 
self. I think I must have sprung upwards some 
distance with the pain, and the shark must have 
turned quickly and made another lunge at the place 
where I had been; for the first thing I saw was 
the ferocious villain right under me; and the next 
thing, I had dropped astride of his back, just behind 


A Story of Adventicre. 


4i 


the neck, and was hanging on for dear life. Wasn’t 
that a pretty fix! My steed didn’t know what to 
make of it. He writhed and splashed and snapped ; 
but I stuck close, and his efforts were of no avail. 
Finally he turned and put out to sea as fast as 
ever he could. I knew that sooner or later he 
would find another shark, and that the two would 
be more than a match for me. My knife still 
stuck in his forehead, not quite out of my reach; 
but I dared not let go my hold and lean forward 
after it, for fear of being dismounted. Presently, 
however, I chanced to do the very thing which a 
natural philosopher would have done under the cir¬ 
cumstances. Looking about for the best place to 
hold on by, I noticed on each side of the shark’s 
head five little holes in a row. Into these I dug 
my fingers and thumbs, and found that in this way 
I obtained a secure hold. But presently I noticed 
that this produced an extraordinary effect upon the 
shark. In fact, it was not long before he gasped 
out, “ Look here, I beg ! ” 

“What’s the matter?” said I. 

“ Matter enough,” said he, looking very squalid 
and miserable. “ You’ve stopped up my breathing- 
holes, and I am strangling to death. A fellow can’t live 
if he isn’t allowed to let out the water he breathes.” 

“ That’s true,” said I, pushing my fingers in 
tighter than ever. 


42 


Under Land and Sea; 


And sure enough, the shark grew weaker and 
weaker, and his pleading voice died away to a mere 
whisper. Suddenly I bethought myself that it would 
be better to make use of him than to kill him; 
for I was now several miles from the bay; and 
who knew what monsters I might meet in trying 
to get back alone? I might even lose my way, and 
wander about on the bed of the Atlantic the rest 
of my life, with no way of sending word to my 
friends. For, you see, my dears, in those days we 
had no ocean cable, nor indeed any telegraph at all. 

So I took my fingers out of his blow-holes, and 
waited for him to recover his strength, taking the 
opportunity, meanwhile, to get back my knife, which 
I put crosswise in my teeth, so as to have it ready 
for use, if required, and yet leave my hands free. 
It was not long before I had made a bargain with 
my shark, who was now quite tame and meek, to 
spare his life, if he behaved himself properly and 
carried me safely back into the bay. 

“ I want to go where there are turtles,” said I. 

“ They re not good to eat,” said the shark. 

“ Now, I’ll have none of your advice,” replied 
I ; “ you have only to go where I order you.” 

So we started back; and a very pleasant ride I 
had of it. I could steer perfectly by applying my 
hand to the blow-holes on either side; for the shark 
would immediately turn in the other direction, to 


A Story of A dventure . 


43 


escape the pressure. But in general I depended on 
him to find the way; for I knew he was anxious 
enough to get rid of me. 

I laughed to see, as we sped along, how all the 
inhabitants of the bay fled away on either side, 

leaving a clear path before us. It seemed but a 
few moments before I saw again the light-green 

color which indicated shallow water; and in a few 
'seconds more my steed ran his long nose into the 
mud, completely throwing me over his head. Before 
I could fairly recover myself, he had turned tail 
and put out to sea again in a tremendous hurry, 
without so much as saying good-by. I never saw 
him again ; and, what is still more remarkable, there 
hasn’t been a shark heard of in the bay from that 

day to this. You see this chap told the rest, 

and they thought it best to avoid the neighbor¬ 
hood ! 

Well, when I looked about me, sure enough, 
there were a family of turtles. I tried to enter into 
conversation with some of them; but I found it a 
difficult matter. The young ladies of this family are 
not even so affable and smiling as the oyster; they 
just take in their heads when you speak to them, 
and will not say a word, no matter how long you 
rap at their shells. And the old maids are so snap¬ 
pish that there is no peace with them. But after a 
while I found one very old gentleman, who had been 


44 


Under Land and Sea : 


quarrelling with his wife. She had turned him on 
his back and left him, in her spite, quite unable to 
get right side up again. This was a good chance 
for me; so cordially shaking his flipper, I promised 
to restore him at once to his proper position in 

4 

society if he would answer a few questions 
for me. 

This he agreed to do, apologizing at the same 
time for the awkward position in which I found 
him. He had eaten a little too much green soup 
at a public dinner, and so he could not float nor 
manage his limbs, even in the water. 

“Capital hotel, that June Puddle,” said he, “but 
the living'is a little too rich for us salt-water fellows. 
We are too easily upset.” 

When I had turned him over like a flapjack, he 
peered cautiously around to see if his angry spouse 
was anywhere near, and then, having recovered his 
courage and somewhat arranged his ideas, he said 
pompously: “Well, young person, what can I do 
for you ? ” 

[“ O grandfather! you are ever so much bigger 
than a turtle . He wouldn't talk so to you ! ” 

“Ah! my dears , he was a doctor and a member 
of the Board of Health , and that made him feel 
bigger than anybody. Why , this very meeting where 
he had eaten so much was a grand convention to 
discuss the alarming prevalence of unwholesome dry 


A Story of Adventure. 


45 


land) and tv devise means for increasing the number 
and size of nutritious and health-breeding puddles. ' 
Oh ! he was big enough , I promise you.”] 

I told him that I had got accustomed to living 
under water, and desired to know how I could re¬ 
cover the power to breathe air, so as to return to 
the world I had left. 

“ Earth, air, water, fire! ” said the old doctor, in 
a solemn and mysterious way. “H’m! air you did, 
water you do, fire you can’t, earth you must! 
Those are your symptoms, sir.” 

“ Do you mean,” said I, “ that I must go through 
the earth to get back to the air?” 

But the turtle had retired into his shell, and 
wouldn’t speak another word. However, I knew his 
weak point; and in a jiffy I had him sprawling on 
his back and begging my pardon. This time I did 
not let him up until he had told me all I wanted 
to know. He said that once in a while a sea-turtle 
disappeared into a certain cleft in the rocks near 
by, and never returned. But they had been heard 
from, far in the interior, where they had set up as 
land-turtles, and were doing well. “ Our profoundest 
thinkers,” added he, “ are of the opinion that they 
partake in their subterranean passage of some gaseous 
water, which forms, as it were, a preparation for the 
breathing of air.” 

At once I knew that it must be something like . 


46 Under Land and Sea : 

a natural soda-water spring, and I saw how probable 
was the explanation of the turtle. 

Eager to put my new discovery into practice, I 
bid my venerable friend good-by, not forgetting first 
to set him on his feet, and to hang about his neck, 
as a slight token of my gratitude, a handsome paste¬ 
board medal, which he said he should wear with 
pride as long as he lived. The inscription was: 
“ Served up to-day at one o’clock ! ” 

[“ Now, grandfather! that's what they put on the 
turtles in front of the eating-houses. We don't believe 
a word of it. WHERE COULD YOU GET IT?” 

“ Well, my dears , you must excuse me if I remark 
that there are some questions which little folks should 
not ask , and which old folks are unable—I mean dis¬ 
inclined—to answer .”] 

Well, I started at once for the cleft in the rock, 
and, to my great joy, found it large enough to ad¬ 
mit my body, though in some places it squeezed 
me pretty tightly. I crawled and wriggled forward 
for a good while, and found the water growing less 
and less salt. There was a strong current of it 
setting against me, and I grew quite weary in at¬ 
tempting to stem it, after all my other fatigues. 
It was pitch dark all about me, and I supposed it 
was night, though, for that matter, I found out af¬ 
terwards that it was quite as dark in the daytime 
also at this particular place. So I resolved to go 


A Story of Adventure. 


47 


to sleep. To be sure I had not eaten any supper; 
but the fact is, I was afraid to do that. You see I 
had got my lungs accustomed to the water, and 
even that was costing me a great deal of trouble to 
undo again. If I went on to eat and drink like a 
fish, perhaps it would be quite impossible to recover 
the human way of living again. So I thought I 
would rather go hungry as long as possible. 

I lay down at the bottom of the stream, with a 
stone under my head for a pillow, and pulled an¬ 
other, a great flat one, over my body for a coverlid, 
to prevent me from being carried away; and in this 
curious position I fell asleep, as soundly as if I had 
been tucked up by a Lord High Chamberlain in a 
gorgeous Imperial couch, upon eider-down pillows 
and beneath embroidered silken curtains. Indeed, I 
used to sleep in just such a bed when I was Sultan 
of Cathay. 

[“ Now you needn't cry out 1 0 grandfather ! ’ for 
I remember it very well , and some other tune I will tell 
you all about it .”] 

I was waked by something nibbling at my toes, 
and, making a swift spring, I plunged my hand into 
a crowd of little fish, one of whom I caught by 
the tail. It was so dark that I could not see what 
he was like; and it was some time before I could 
make the struggling, frightened little thing speak 
to me. When at last he found courage to answer 


48 


Under Land and Sea: 


my questions in a little squeaky voice, he said he 
lived in a cave, and had run away for fun with a 
lot of others, and they had all lost their way, and 
were being carried by the current, they did not 
know where. 

“ I know where! ” said I sternly, to punish him 
for his naughtiness. “ You were drifting down to the 
sea, to be eaten up, as you deserve. Serve you 
right! A fish with eyes in his head has no busi¬ 
ness to lose his way.” 

To this the little fellow replied plaintively, “ I 
don’t know what you are talking about,” and began 
to weep; and, strange to say, he wept at his ears, 
for he hadn’t any eyes at all, and never had heard 
of such a thing. But that I found out afterwards. 

Well, I told him to trust to me, and I would bring 
him safely home ; so, tucking him tenderly into my 
pocket, I began again to crawl up stream. Pretty 
soon I found it was not actually dark. There were 
little bits of light here and there in the water,— 
pieces of daylight, I suppose, that had got caught 
in it long before, and couldn’t get away; and as I 
proceeded my path was occasionally illuminated by 
precious stones, clustered in the gloomy rocks, and 
shedding a beautiful lustre through the water. 

Presently the stream widened into a still, deep 
pool, and the little fish, with a wriggle of joy, 
jumped out of my pocket and scuttled away. So 


A Story of Adventure . 49 

this was the cave, I thought. For a long time I 
walked around on the bottom of the little lake, 
feeling the rocks with my hand, and wondering at 
their strange shapes. They seemed to be carved into 
all kinds of objects, such as tables and chairs, tall, 
straight columns, and flights of stairs. Finally I 
climbed up one of these, nearly to the surface of 
the water, and put out my head for an instant, 
just to see how the air would feel. It made me 
gasp so that I quickly pulled it in again. Then I 
laid myself upon a kind of shelf just under the 
dark water, and felt very tired and hungry and mis¬ 
erable. My courage seemed to give way all at once. 
I gazed up into the gloomy space above, which I 
knew was air, and, oh! how I wished I had never 
been drowned! I hope you will never try it, my 
dears; it is curious, but it is very uncomfortable. 
And if you do get drowned you had better go right 
back to the surface, and let your friends pull you 
out and bring'you back to life. Trying to get back 
the way I did is not to be recommended. 

I thought of all this, and a great deal more, as 

I lay on my shelf; and I was quite ready to wish 

myself back again in the bay, to take my chances 
with the sharks and the lobsters, rather than starve 

there in the dark. For now, even if I had made 

up my mind to eat, there was absolutely nothing 
to be had. I believe if one of you had come along 


50 


Under Land and Sea: 


at that moment, and dropped in a pin, with a good 
fat worm on it, you might have caught me! 

But wonders never will cease; that is, they never 
would, when I was young! As I lay mourning 
my desperate condition, what should I see but 
a line of starry lights, that came nearer and nearer, 
until I perceived that they were candles, held by 
human beings. Before I could distinguish the per¬ 
sons, however, I could not help noticing, in spite 
of my excitement, the wonderful splendor of the 
cave. The dazzling white pillars rose on all sides to 
the roof, almost out of sight, and great icicles of 
stone hung half-way down, flashing in the light, and 
throwing long, fantastic shadows upon the walls. 
But I soon forgot this as I saw the party approach, 
and heard them talk. There was a rough-looking 
man, whom they called the guide, and a handsome old 
gentleman with a white necktie, and a boy of about 
my age, and a little girl a year or two younger. 
The children were walking very carefully, holding 
the hands of the older people, and exclaiming with 
every step at the loveliness of the cave. 

They/ came close to the edge of the lake where 
I was lying, and the guide said, “ Here’s a good 
place to take your lunch, sir; right by the edge of 
this lake.” So they all sat down, close by me ; and 
I was on the point of popping my head right out 
of the water amongst the company; but experience 


A Story of Adventure. 


51 


had made me prudent, and I reflected that by such 
a course I would only frighten them, and perhaps 
kill myself; so I lay still and listened to the con¬ 
versation. The children asked where the water came 
from and where it went to, and whether there were 
any fish in it; to which the guide replied that no¬ 
body knew where it came from, but it probably 
went underground to the sea; and that there were 
plenty of fish in the lake, only they had no eyes. 
Then the little girl, who was the prettiest little girl 
that I ever saw—you look like her, my dear— 
pitied the fish, and said it was dreadful for any¬ 
body to live in such dark, cold water. 

‘‘Yes, it is cold,” said the guide; “you might 
jest set your bottle of soda-water down here in 

this flat, shaller pla # ce, and keep it nice and cool 
till you want to use it.” The little girl bent her 

beautiful bright face over me without seeing me, 
and set the bottle on the shelf close by my hand. 
But, alas! in doing so she lost her balance and fell 
beyond me, into the deep water. Instantly I slip¬ 
ped off my '•shelf, caught her by the dress, and 
lifted her with all my might, almost throwing her 
out upon the edge. The guide was quick enough 

to catch her, and in a moment she had recovered 

her breath enough to say, “I am not hurt, papa!” 
But of course everybody was very much excited ; 
and as soon as possible they wrapped her up in a 


52 


Under Land and Sea: 


shawl, and carried her away, leaving the lunch half 
eaten and quite forgotten. As they were going the 
guide said to himself, as it were, “ Curious thing; 
never see anything like it. That child came back 
out of the water ’most as if she was throwed back! ” 
In a moment more they were gone, and the place 
was dark again. 

For a good while I felt so stunned that I could 
not think. Then I realized that with the beautiful 
little girl and her friends and their candles all my 
hopes had gone. Disconsolately I climbed back to 
my old shelf, when suddenly my hand struck upon 
the bottle of soda-water. Hurrah ! this was exactly 
what Dr. Turtle pronounced to be necessary for my 
recovery. You may believe that I opened it very 
quickly, but with great care. First I vigorously 
blew out all the water from my lungs, and then 
I fired the soda-water (cork and all, so as not to 
lose a drop) into my mouth, boldly putting my 
head above water as I did so. The first effect was 
a series of tremendous sneezes; then I felt that 
curious sensation in the nose which soda-water 
always causes in well-regulated persons; and by that 
I knew that I was a boy again, as I had so often 
wished to be. Quickly I climbed out of the water 
and seated myself on the bank, where I remained 
for some time, simply enjoying the pleasure of 
breathing. Breathing is a great blessing; if you 


A Story of Adventure . 53 

don’t believe it, just try to get along with¬ 
out it. 

Pretty soon my hand accidentally fell on a box 
of sardines, which had been part of the lunch of 
the party of travellers. Hungry as I was, I did 
not feel like eating fish; I had so recently been all 
but a fish myself. So I groped a little further and 
found the sandwiches. When I tell you that I ate 
up the whole lunch of four people, you will believe 
that I had a pretty good appetite. I even hunted 
in the dark for more; but I found what was still 
better, namely, the candle of the little girl, and a 
box of matches, both of which had been left behind 
in the general confusion. 

Now isn’t that a fine story ? 

[“ Why, grandfather , that isnt all; you know that 
isnt all! You haven t told us how long it took you 
to get out , and whether you ever found the little girl , 
a?id what your folks said when you got home , and 
how you got the money from the wreck , and ever so 
much more / ”] 

No, there isn’t much more to tell. It took me 
just fifteen years to get out of the cave and find 
that girl again—half an hour to get out, and all 
the rest of the time to find her. I am afraid 
there was some mistake about the money on that 
ship. At least nobody ever could discover it again. 
The fact is, when I got home it was night, and I 


54 


Under Land and Sea. 


crawled quietly to bed, without being seen. When 
I awoke again there was my whole family standing 
by the bed, rubbing and thumping me ; and just as 
I opened my eyes my father hastily hid a pair of 
bellows behind him! 

“ Halloo ! ” said I; “ you needn’t try that on me; I’ve 
had hard enough work coming back by the other way.” 

“The boy’s flighty,” said my father; and when I 
went on and told my story, they all shook their heads 
sadly, and assured me that I had been pulled out of the 
water and supposed to be drowned, an hour before. 

“ Drowned! Of course I was drowned,” said I ; 
“ haven’t I told you ? But I was fool enough to 
let an old lobster persuade me not to come up to 
the surface.” 

It was all of no use; they would not believe 
my story; and, in fact, I became at last so influ¬ 
enced by their obstinacy that I doubted it myself. 
But fifteen years afterwards I found the little girl 
again, and that convinced me that it was all true. 
How did I know it was the same little girl? Be¬ 
cause she was so pretty; that’s the way I recog¬ 
nized her. Did she remember falling into the dark 
water ? Well, no, my dears, I regret to say that 
your grandmother and I never could agree on that 
point. She said she never had been in a cave in 
all her life; but, you see, I knew better, for 1 re¬ 
membered her very zvell! 


UP-STAIRS, DOWN-STAIRS, AND IN 
MY LADY’S CHAMBER. 


-STAIRS lived the musician, all alone. 
Down-stairs lived the old shoemaker, 
all alone. In the lady’s chamber, 
with the lady’s parlor opening out of 
it, lived the lady, likewise all alone— 
excepting her maid, but she doesn’t 
count, you know. In other words, 
the house was let to lodgers in 
stories, and the shoemaker had the 
first story, the lady the second, and the musician 
the third, which was also the attic, and gave him 
the privilege of the roof. 

All three of them led quiet and discontented 
lives. The musician had to play in an orchestra 
where nothing was required but what he called 
trashy light music, and that he abominated. More¬ 
over, he had to give lessons on the violin to sev¬ 
eral pupils, none of whom had any genius for it, 
and all of whom would have failed to master it, 
even with genius, because they had no application 



55 



56 


Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 


This he disliked more than the orchestra; and he 
used to retire to his solitary lodgings and revenge 
himself upon society by fierce meditations, now and 
then, of a starry night, seating himself on the roof 
and confiding his restless feelings to the sky by 
means of wailing melodies upon the violin. I have 
no doubt he thought this was music of a high 
order, and wondered why such strains were not ap¬ 
preciated by the public. In truth, however, it was 
not much better than that he played in the orches¬ 
tra. One was trashy and light; the other was 
trashy and heavy; that was all. Yet the musician 
could have composed heavenly melodies if he had 
tuned his soul first. Nobody can set to real music 
and sing to his fellow-men the theme, “ Behold 
how much more refined I am than you are! ” 
That was what the musician was for ever doing ; and 
no wonder people didn’t appreciate him. He didn’t 
deserve it. 

The shoemaker down-stairs was lonesome too. 
Not that he spent any time bemoaning his lot, or 
really knew what was the matter with him. He 
was industrious and sober; he earned good wages, 
saved a large part of them, and put it in the bank. 
His only pleasure was to see in his bank-book how 
the deposits were accumulating. Yet he was not 
naturally a miser, nor did he cherish any plans as to 
the disposition of his money. He had no thought 


In My Lady s Chamber. 


57 


of spending it or bequeathing it to anybody. He 
had merely got into the habit of doing nothing but 
work and save. While he worked he neither sang 
nor read, nor thought much. When he was younger 
he had done all three; but that was years ago, and 
he had got out of the habit of it, though if any¬ 
thing had shaken and stirred him up, I think he 
would have surprised everybody with his native good 
sense and shrewd wit. As it was, nobody in the 
world knew what there was under his crust. Folks 
called him Old Pegs; and I recollect how, once upon 
a time, when a few of us were talking of a won¬ 
derful new invention for making shoes by machinery, 
somebody said, “Talk of a shoemaking machine! 
Old Pegs is the best one that will ever be found— 
warranted to run all day without watching, do good 
work, make no noise, and need no repairs.” 

Then there was the lady on the second floor. 
She was a widow, and well off as to money-matters; 
but she had lost her only child, as well as her hus¬ 
band, and she wanted to get out of the world. So 
she had rented the second floor, and there she lived 
with a maid to wait on her. One of the maid’s 
duties was to answer calls at the door, and tell 
everybody that the lady received no company. The 
lady gave her the necessary instructions for each 
day, the first thing in the morning, and then spoke 
to her no more. 


58 Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 

The rooms were handsomely furnished, for the 
lady nursed her sorrows in a refined and elegant 
way. The parlor was full of books and engravings. 
A picture of the lady’s husband on one wall faced 
a picture of her child on the other; but both were 
covered with crape, because she couldn’t bear, she 
said, to look upon them. A piano stood there too; 
but it never was opened. The curtains were al¬ 
ways down, and blinds closed ; the rooms were 
sombre and gloomy, though a little sunlight would 
have changed them marvellously. There was no¬ 
thing the matter with them except the lady’s mourn¬ 
ful life. 

As for her, she read and mused a great deal, 
and was convinced that her existence was blasted. 
Her health failed somewhat—she said by reason of 
her grief; but the doctor said from lack of air, ex¬ 
ercise, and amusement. At these words, when she 
first heard them, she gave a shudder of horror; 
but the doctor insisted, until she yielded so far as 
to take occasional rides in a close carriage. 

Thus up-stairs, down-stairs, and in my lady’s 
chamber there were loneliness and unhappiness, which 
the sufferers charged on heaven, but which was 
really all their own fault. They were naturally good 
people, too, which made it all the worse ; since they 
had no excuse for allowing themselves to fall into 
their present condition. Selfishness—that was what 


In My Lady s Chamber. 


59 


troubled them. Selfish refinement up-stairs; selfish 
labor down-stairs; selfish grief in my lady’s cham¬ 
ber. And thus it happened in that house, what I 
trust was not the case in any other house of Chris¬ 
tendom, that Christmas morning came, and no one 
paid much attention to it. No one, that is to say, 
except the lady’s maid, who appeared before her as 
usual, with a courtesy ; but instead of waiting to re¬ 
ceive instructions as to dinner, and so forth, said 
very quickly, as if she had thought it all over and 
put it in the best words beforehand, “ If you please, 
ma’am, I’m going home for to-day, and I will come 
again in the morning. I got up early and swept 
and dusted, and got your breakfast; but you’ll have 
to make your own bed, ma’am, I am sorry to say, 
for I can’t wait any longer. It wouldn’t be fair to 
the children, ma’am ; they voted not to look at the 
stockings till I got there, and I promised to be 
there by nine.” 

Now, if the little maid had delivered a shorter 
speech, the lady would have made, I fear, a snap¬ 
pish reply, for that was her first impulse; but the 
allusion to children turned her thoughts a little, and 
she said, not unkindly, “ Very well ; go and enjoy 
yourself. Alas! my days of happiness are over! ” 

With that the little maid, trembling at her own 
audacity, said, “ If you please, ma’am, it would do 
you good to see the children, and they would be 


60 Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 

proud to have you come.” But the lady waved her 
hand and sank into an arm-chair, overcome with the 
mere idea; and when she lifted her face from her 
black-edged cambric handkerchief, the little maid was 
gone. 

The lady couldn’t really enjoy her grief, unless 
everything was in order about her; so the first 
thing she did after breakfast was to make the bed 
and arrange the chamber with her own hands. She 
had not done so for a long time, though she was 
a capital housekeeper, and there was nothing about 
housekeeping, from garret to kitchen, that she did 
not understand. This morning she was quite sur¬ 
prised at herself to find how much satisfaction it 
gave her to do something. “ Making one’s own bed 
is a real pleasure,” said she to herself, and then 
felt quite guilty that she had thought of pleasure— 
she, whose days of happiness were over! But the 
mischief was done, and without really knowing what 
moved her, she dressed herself with more than usual 
care, and in a less gloomy way. Instead of her 

heavy crape and bombazine, she put on a lustrous 
black silk dress, and left off her ugly widow’s cap. 

Then she seated herself again in the arm-chair, and 

was all ready to meditate; but her thoughts kept 
running on the little maid and her family. “ I won¬ 
der how many there are?” thought she. “How 

strange that I have never asked her a word about 


In My Lady s Chamber. 61 

them! Her father and mother are dead, it seems 
to me. That’s all I can remember of her affairs. I 
wish I had sent those children some Christmas gifts. 
They are poor, no doubt, or their sister would not 
be going out to service.” 

Just then there came a knock at the door, and 
there being no maid to drive away the visitor, the 
lady was obliged to go herself. But she had only 
half crossed the parlor when the door flew open, 
and on the threshold stood a Child. 

“ What do you want ? ” said the lady. “ You 

must have made a mistake.” The Child said no¬ 

thing at first, but stepped swiftly and lightly across 
the room, and before she could divine what it 

would do, it had thrown back the curtains and flung 
open the blinds. The sun glanced brightly from a 
snowy roof opposite, above which glowed the pure 
blue sky; but the lady noticed nothing of the 

beauty outside, she was so amazed at the appear¬ 
ance of the Child, in whose golden hair she seemed 
to see the sun, and its eyes the azure heavens. 
Such deep, calm, clear, solemn, laughing, innocent, 
brave blue eyes were never seen. Above them the 
bright locks flowed back from the fair forehead, as 
though stirred by a perpetual breeze; beneath them 
the sweet mouth wore the gladness of infancy, blent 
with the gravity of age. 

Then at last the Child spoke in a musical voice, 


62 


Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 


at once confiding and commanding: “ No, I have 
not made a mistake; I want you. Come!" And 
down into the shining, frosty world it pointed. 

Strangely led by a power she could not resist, 
the lady wrapped herself in shawl and furs, and 
drawing a thick veil over her face, followed down 
the stairs. But at the bottom, the Child, with sud¬ 
den, gentle force, tore away the veil, saying only 
“Not to-day!" And so they went into the street.* 
But in front of the house the Child paused again, 
and pointing at the lower floor, said, “ Who lives 
down-stairs ? " 

“ A shoemaker, I believe." 

“ And who lives up-stairs ? " 

“ I suppose it is a musician. I hear him prac¬ 
tising sometimes." 

“ What did you give them for Christmas ?" per¬ 
sisted the whimsical Child. 

“ I ? Why nothing. I don’t know them. I 
never spoke to them in my life. Why should I 
have anything to do with them?" 

“ I suppose you sent your Christmas presents by 
the little maid to the children," continued the Child. 

“ No," said the lady sadly, “ I am all alone in 
the world •, I give no presents to anybody, and no¬ 
body gives any to me." 

“ Wait," said the Child quickly, and sped up the 
stairs like a bright arrow, to the musician’s door, 


In My Lady s Chamber, 63 

and burst in without knocking. The musician was 
sitting with his head in his hands, feeling more 
miserable than ever; for he had a vacation that 
day, and he didn’t know what to do with it. He was 
just thinking that even giving lessons and playing 
trashy music was better than this, when the daz¬ 
zling Child broke in upon him, out of breath and 
smiling, with a bewitching nod and greeting, and 
the words, “ Merry Christmas ! The lady begs the 
honor of your company.” 

It was really remarkable that nobody could ob¬ 
ject to anything that Child said! In two seconds 
more the wondering musician was on his way down¬ 
stairs ; and at the front door stood the lady, to 
whom he made a splendid bow (for he knew what 
belonged to good manners), and said, “ The compli¬ 
ments of the season, madam. I am proud and 

happy to wait upon you ! ” 

Meanwhile the brave Child had invaded the 
dingy shop of the shoemaker. There sat Old Pegs 
in his best clothes, but hammering away at his 
work. He had dressed himself up in honor of the 
day; but he couldn’t stand the idleness, and so 

finally he had said to himself, “ What’s the odds ? 

It isn’t Sunday, anyhow ; and there’s nothing for an 
old hunks 4 like me to do but to keep pegging! ” 

He was just putting the last touches to a pair of 
children’s shoes, when the wondrous visitor came in. 


64 Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 

“Ah!” said the child, with a happy laugh, “you 
had to work this morning to get them done, didn’t 
you ? Well, it’s better late than never, and there’s 
still time to take them there. So hurry along; the 
lady sends a Merry Christmas, and she is all wait¬ 
ing for you.” 

Just as the lady and the musician were begin- 
ning to get a little embarrassed, having already 
agreed that it was a fine day, and that they were 
both “pretty well, thank you,” the Child made its 
appearance, more radiant than ever, bearing the shoes 
triumphantly in one hand, and followed by the 
shoemaker himself. “ Pretty business for Old Pegs,” 
he muttered, “ but I’m in for it, and I might as 
well make a good job of it. None of your half- 
soled work for me ! ” 

Thus it came to pass that of the three selfish 
and unhappy neighbors the shoemaker was the first 
to speak frankly. These crusty people are apt to 
be hardest on the outside, and very juicy within; 
and Old Pegs was, after all, one of that kind, 
though nothing had broken through his crust for 

years. Now he came out of his den, and nodding 
to the others, said cheerily, “ A merry Christmas, 

neighbors! I suppose you are good friends, and I 
am an old heathen to live so long in the same 

house with you and never pass a kindly word with 

either of you. I don’t know how much longer I 


In My Lady s Chamber. 


65 


might have done it, though, if it hadn’t been for 
your pretty Child, ma’am. Bless you, the Child 
thought I was making shoes for a Christmas present 
to somebody, and so I was, stingy old sinner, only 
I don’t know exactly who it is! ” 

There was no time to reply, for the Child took 
the shoemaker’s hand, and led the way swiftly down 
the street. Past many happy homes they went, 
and heard shouts and songs and laughter from with¬ 
in. At last they stopped before a poor and rick¬ 
ety dwelling, and the Child tapped softly at the 
door. It was opened by the lady’s maid, with a 
glad smile of recognition for the Child, and a look of 
amazement for the rest. “ I am very glad to see you, 
ma’am,” said the little maid, “ and you, gentlemen—” 
Here the situation was perplexing, for the lady 
didn’t know either of the gentlemen by name, and 
so she couldn’t introduce them, as of course she 
ought to, for the little maid in her own house was 
now the hostess, and the lady was bound to be po¬ 
lite. But the old shoemaker, who had been grow¬ 
ing jollier and jollier every step of the way, solved the 
difficulty in a minute. “ Up-stairs and Down-stairs,” 
said Pegs; “ he’s Up-stairs and I’m Down-stairs. 

‘“Friends three, 

Out on a spree, 

Come to see 
How you be ! * ” 


66 Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 

Then they all laughed, and went into the room— 
for it was but one room—which the little maid called 
“ home.” The fire-place was the best part of it ; 
ail the rest was old and bare; but that was made 
glorious by a roaring great fire of pine-chips and 
blocks. Before it were a boy and girl, so intently 
watching the flames that they did not notice the 
arrival of the strangers. 

“Now watch this piece of the old crutch burn,” 
said the boy; “ this is a splendid piece. It has 
been seasoning for years and years, and I dipped 
it in a tar-barrel this morning besides. Hi! don’t 
she blaze, though! I tell you what, Christmas is 
great fun.” 

“Yes,” said the girl, “I like the fire too. It 
was real clever of you to think of taking away the 
stove and opening the old fire-place; and you took 
so much trouble to get the chips. But the best 
thing about Christmas is to have Sister at home, 
isn’t it ? ” 

With that they both looked around and saw that 
there was company present. This awful discovery 
quenched all conversation at first, but presently the 
Child slipped the new shoes into Old Pegs’ hand, 
and pointed silently at the rough, bare feet of the boy. 

“ Ay, ay,” said the shoemaker, “ they’ll fit. Look 
here, youngster, here’s a pair of shoes for you, from 
your affectionate uncle, Down-stairs.” 


In My Lady s Chamber. 


67 


This was too much for the boy’s bashfulness. 
That quality is only skin-deep in boys anyhow, and 
new shoes are always sure to annihilate it—especi¬ 
ally when a fellow hasn’t any shoes at all. “ That’s 
bully!” cried the boy in this case, jumped up, turned 
a summerset, and throwing his bare feet into the 
air, walked up to the shoemaker on his hands, and 
in this unnatural position executed what might be 
called an inverted courtesy, after which he turned 
right side up (without any particular care), and ex¬ 
pressed his thanks in a most respectful manner. 

“ How did you know,” said he, “that I hadn’t 
got any shoes ? I came near having a pair, though. 
You see the fellow who sells most copies of the 
Daily Penny Whistle gets a premium, and I am sure 
I would have got it last time, if two other fellows 
hadn’t clubbed together and put all they both sold 
under one name. So one of them, you see, got 
the five-dollar prize, and then they two divided it. 
I say that’s mean. One of ’em offered to let me 
into the ring, but I wouldn’t help ’em cheat— 
though I did want to earn a pair of shoes some¬ 
how. My last ones went in the spring—what was 
left of them. I sold ’em for five cents to a stage- 
driver, to nail on his brake-bars. Those shoes would 
make bully friction, they would; you see the soles 
were just chock-full of pegs ! ” 

While the boy was thus making acquaintance 


68 


Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 


with the shoemaker, the little girl arose from the 
stool on which she had been sitting, and came 

towards the lady, for whom, and for the musician, 
the maid had brought the only two chairs in the 
room. The shoemaker sat on a candle-box, which 
he said was just high enough for him ; and the 

bright-haired Child moved about the room in a still, 

happy way, as if feeling quite at home. 

When the little girl arose, they saw that she 
was lame. But she had a dear, patient, cheerful 

face, and the lady was so pleased with her that 
she kissed her, at which the lady’s maid could 

scarcely believe her eyes. 

“See my new crutch!” said the little girl, “my 
brother made it all himself, only the carpenter gave 
him the wood. And I made him two warm ear- 
flaps for his cap; sister showed me how. And sister 
gave us such warm stockings—only he couldn’t wear 
his stockings, we thought, because he hadn’t any 

shoes.” Here she turned suddenly on the beautiful 
Child, and added : “ But you said the shoes would 
come; and so I knew they .would! ” 

“ Why, you know them! ” said the lady to the 
Child. 

“ Them, and you, and everybody,” answered the 
Child simply, with a smile. “ I promised the shoes 
this morning, and what I promise comes to pass, 

they know.” 


In My Lady s Chamber . 69 

"Yes,” said the boy, “and you promised us a ride 
in a carriage, and some beautiful music. Will that 
come, too, I wonder? But don’t you mind, anyhow. 
You’ve done lots for us; and I guess we’ve had 
our share already. You see, my shoes are the very 
best thing for the family, because chilblains make 
me no use at all. But now I can go anywhere; 
and who wants to ride? Tell the coachman he 
needn’t come; I prefer walking.” 

“ He will come,” said the Child quietly, and 
looked straight at the lady. 

“ And, oh ! will the music come ? ” eagerly asked 
the little girl. 

The Child nodded, and looked at the musician. 

“ If my carriage were here,” murmured the lady. 

“And my violin,” sighed the musician. 

But the Child had disappeared; and it seemed 
but a moment before wheels were heard outside, 
and a carriage stopped at the door. Sure enough, 
it was the lady’s carriage; and the lady said joy¬ 
ously: “Now it’s my turn; we will take a ride, 
and get a good Christmas dinner; and then we will 
all go to my rooms, and there we will have the 
music.” 

But the lady’s maid said she would go and pre¬ 
pare the rooms, while the rest went to ride; and 
both the shoemaker and the musician said they 
would help. 


70 


Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 


So the lady went off with the children, for hours 
and hours; and such a time as they had no mortal 
tongue can describe. When they finally appeared at 
the house, both the young ones were so warmly 
and prettily dressed that their sister didn’t know 
them; and the boy carried a pair of skates, which 
he had chosen out of a whole storeful of things 
(after a desperate mental struggle on the rival at¬ 
tractions of a jack-knife), while the little girl, without 
any hesitation, had selected a book full of stories 
and pictures, and both of them had united in pre¬ 
ferring for their elder sister the prettiest needle-and- 
scissor case in the world. 

But, meanwhile, what hadn’t the others done 
with the house! It was truly magical. 

Old Pegs had said: “ Now, you young ones, 

just go in, and I’ll pay the bill. I haven’t spent 
anything for seventeen Christmases; and I don’t care 
if you pile it all on this one.” 

So they had bought wagon-loads of green wreaths 
and boughs, and hired a dozen people to help with 
all their might; and, before the carriage got home, 
they made the whole house—up-stairs, down-stairs, 
and in my lady’s chamber—look lovely and cheerful 
as a fairies’ bower in the summer woods. 

The musician had so many brilliant ideas that 
the little maid could not help saying several times 
to herself: “How much he knows; and how good 


In My Lady s Chamber. 


7 1 


he is! ” while she herself, on the other hand, was 
so quick, and neat, and handy, and untiring, that 
the musician thought he never had seen such a re¬ 
markably attractive and useful young woman. 

After the decorations were all ready, there was 
still time to tune the piano; and while he was do¬ 
ing that she ran up-stairs and put his room in 
lovely order, hanging up clothes where they belonged, 
and arranging books and papers, so that it looked 
more comfortable and cheerful than ever before. 
(The musician was really grateful for this service, 
although, to be sure, he couldn’t find anything he 
wanted for days after; but that is an incidental 
matter altogether. When lovely woman takes so 
much pains to put away things, man ought to be 
willing to suffer some inconvenience in discovering 
where she puts them—and order is such a blessing, 
after all!) 

The shoemaker retreated into his shop (but not 
until they had succeeded in washing the windows 
and hanging cedar and holly wherever there was 
room for them), and there he sat on his bench, 
reflecting. Presently he was surprised to see the 
blue-eyed Child standing before him. 

“ They don’t need me any more,” said the Child. 

“ Don’t you belong to the lady ?” asked Old Pegs. 

“ Not to anybody, but to everybody—to you, if 
you please. Everybody who loves me owns me.” 


72 


Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 


“ There must be a great many such,” said Old 

Pegs, mournfully. 

“Yes, indeed,” replied the Child, with a smile; 
“ you ought to be glad of that. I am—only I wish 
there were more.” 

“ Well, I’m sure I would like to make one 

more,” cried the shoemaker; “but I can’t do any¬ 
thing particular to show it. You can’t stay with 
me all the time; and if you could, I don’t see 

what I could do to prove that I loved you by 
making you any happier.” 

At this, to his amazement, the wondrous Child 
threw both arms around his neck, and, nestling 
close on his knee and to his breast, whispered: 
“ Prove that you love me by making everybody 

happier.” Then it slipped away swiftly and noise¬ 
lessly, and Old Pegs scarcely knew it was gone; for 
he felt still on his neck the clinging arms, and in 
his heart a strange new warmth, which never went 
away again. While he yet sat there, motionless, the 
door opened, and in rushed the boy. 

“Look here,. Uncle Down-stairs, see what I have 
got! Don’t you think that lady must be an angel ? 
Such bully skates! We couldn’t afford ’em in our 
family, you know. I always had to slide.” 

“ What, barefoot ? ” said Old Pegs, with a jolly 
laugh. 

“Why, yes,” replied the boy, “three good slides, 


In My Lady s Chamber. 


73 


and then run in the house and warm your feet. 
You see, winter is a good deal better than summer; 
because when you are hot, you can’t get cool to 
save your life; but when you are cold, all you 
have got to do is to' wait till you get a chance, 
and then warm yourself. But I sha’n’t have any 
cold feet now, you know. Look here, Uncle Down¬ 
stairs, I wish you’d let me do something for you. 
Now, I’ll tell you what ; I’ll give you your choice. 
It’s great fun to have your choice, I know by ex¬ 
perience. So you just listen, and take plenty of 
time, and make up your mind. I’ll sell you the 
newspaper every day at half-price (that’s just what 
it costs me), or I’ll run errands for you for nothing, 
or—or—I’ll make you a new bench. That’s the best 
of all, I think. The carpenter says I could make 
anything if I only had the tools. By George! I wish 
I could make shoes.” 

Old Pegs looked at the eager boy for a moment, 
and then spoke, with an odd trembling in his voice 
(I don’t think it was age that caused it, for he was 
looking ten years younger than usual): “ Well, 

youngster, I take my choice, and I’ll tell you what 
it is. I choose to have you live with me, and go 
to school every day; and while you are out of 
school I’ll teach you to make shoes. How does 
that fit ? ” 

For one second the boy’s face fairly blazed with 


74 


Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 


happiness; then it fell, and he said firmly: “ I 

couldn’t break up the family, sir. There’s only my 
little sister and I. She’s our little housekeeper, and 
I’m the head of the house. I couldn’t leave her. 
You must choose something else. But I forgot—the 
lady’s compliments, and she would be pleased to 
have your company in her parlor.” 

So they postponed their talk and went up-stairs. 
It was getting dark, and the maid had closed the 
shutters, and brilliantly illuminated the rooms with 
wax candles. The musician was there, in a swallow¬ 
tailed coat and a white vest and a white cravat— 
the dress he used to wear when he played at eve¬ 
ning parties. The lady looked happy, even when 
her eyes fell on the portraits of her husband and 
child, from which the crape had been taken away; 
for their faces seemed to smile upon her, and to 
say: “ This is as we would have it. Keep our 
memory fresh and green, not dark and dead.” 

Then the musician took his violin, and somehow, 
in spite of himself, began to play cheery old tunes 
—tunes that the critics don’t praise, but that people 
sing and hum and whistle, and can’t get out of 
their heads. Before long the lady, who knew them 
all very well, stole to the piano and opened it, and 
struck in with a lively accompaniment. They nodded 
their* heads to keep the time correct, and once the 
musician, forgetting himself, called out, “ Ladies 


In My Lady s Chamber . 


75 


change!” to everybody’s amusement. Unfortunately, 
there were not enough people to get - up a dance ; 
for the little girl was lame, and the shoemaker was 
too creaky in the joints, though he kept time vigo¬ 
rously with his toes, and pounded on his knee as 
if it were a lapstone. But the boy delighted them 
with a most remarkable double-shuffle, in the course 
of which he managed to wave his new shoes fre¬ 
quently before the company, and rap the new heels 
together three times • during a single jump ; and at 
last the lady played alone, while the musician danced 
with the little maid, who had been enjoying other 
people’s pleasure all day, and certainly deserved some 
attention on her own account. 

Then they had a quiet time, looking at pictures 
and telling stories. Everybody had to tell a story 
about a picture; and I wish I had time to repeat 
them, especially that of the boy, who found an 
engraving of a fight with lions, and provided it 
with a thrilling narrative, I promise you; and the 
story of the musician, who selected a picture of 
Little Dorrit, and made the loveliest talk oh the 
subject, though the youngest persons in the company 
could not quite understand what he was driving at. 

When it was time to part, the lady said: “ My 
friends, I hope we shall never be strangers again. 
For my part, I am ashamed that I have been so 
selfish and reserved hitherto, and I mean to make 


76 


Up-Stairs, Down-Stairs, and 


amends. For my dear child who is dead, I shall 
take this little girl to live with me, and I hope to 
make her happy and strong/’ 

“Hooray!” shouted the boy. “Then I can live 
with Uncle Down-stairs. We’ve all had our choice!” 

“ Not at all,” said Old Pegs, who had keen eyes, 
and knew how the wind lay. “There’s Uncle Up¬ 
stairs yonder hasn’t had his choice yet.” 

“ Well,” said the boy, “ he shall have it, if any 
of us can give it to him, sha’n’t he, sister? But 
you can take your time, Uncle Up-stairs.” 

At this startling speech, the little maid (who had 
long admired the musician in secret) grew quite 
scarlet, and the musician (who admired the little 
maid now quite openly, and didn’t care who knew 
it) checked himself in what he was going to say. 
and merely remarked that he had made his choice, 
but he would say no more about it until he found 
out whether he could get what he wanted; but 
he certainly shouldn’t take any more time than was 
necessary. And thereupon he offered to see the 
young folks safely home. 

An instant before the party broke up, the shin¬ 
ing Child appeared once more in the midst of 
them, and looked well pleased from one glad face 
to another. Then it vanished, saying as it went, 
“ The joy will not stop with to-day, for a Merry 
Christmas makes a Happy New Year! ” 


In My Lady s Chamber . 


77 


I was going to say the Child never returned 
again, but it would be more correct to say it never 
fairly departed, for in homes and hearts the sense 
of its presence remained perpetual; and where once 
was heavy toil and thoughtless grief and useless 
discontent, there was now music, and joy, and love, 
and healthful life up-stairs, down-stairs, and in my 
lady’s chamber. 

O dear Child-spirit of the Christmas-tide! wilt 
thou not come to us likewise ? 


HOYTY-TOYTY; 


OR, THE WAYS OF THE WORLD. 


I. 

THE BERNARDS. 

T was just before Christmas, and Father 
Bernard had made ready his little 
shop for a lively holiday trade. The 
great boxes of goods packed in straw 
had been brought up from the base¬ 
ment, and their pretty contents were 
now attractively displayed on the shelves 
and counter. Old Bernard was a Swiss; 
and in his youth he lived in the val¬ 
leys where all the people, old and young, skilfully 
manufacture dainty carvings and playthings for the 
world. When a child, he used to be so busy making 
toys for the children of other countries, that he had 
very little opportunity to play himself; but he enter¬ 
tained himself with thinking how much pleasure some 
one far away would derive from the work of his 

78 




Hoyty- Toyty. 


79 


hands. When he packed a pretty doll or a nut-cracker, or 
a troop of magnificent wooden soldiers, to send them 
away to the city, he would imagine a group of hap¬ 
py children, dressing and undressing their dolls, or crack¬ 
ing nuts by the fire, or having great battles on the 
parlor floor. Now that he was old, he knew very 
well what pleased the young folks best; and all the 
folks liked to go to Bernard’s store, because they 
always found there just what they wanted. 

Little Marie was at home for the vacation, to 
cheer her grandfather with her presence, and to help 
him wait on the crowds of customers. * It was hard 
to say which was pleasanter—to buy of the old man, 
whose white hair and kindly look made him seem 
like Christmas himself, or of Marie, with her brown 
locks so neatly braided, and her clear gray eyes, 
and her sweet smile, that would have excused mis¬ 
takes in giving change—if she had ever made any. 
But she did not make mistakes, except that some¬ 
times a little boy or girl got a penny.too much. 
On such occasions Marie would call out to her grand¬ 
father, “ One! ” And the old man would smile, and 
put a penny from his pocket into the till, so as to 
make the account even. How happy they would be 
this year, if Brother Karl were only with them! 
But Karl was at sea, and no one knew when he 
would return. He and Marie were all the relatives 
left to Father Bernard in this world. 


/ 


8o 


Hoyty - Toyty ; 


II. 

THE STOVE-PIPE HOLE. 

Marie and her grandfather lived over the store, 
in two little back rooms. In the floor of her room 
there was an old stove-pipe hole. Once a workman 
was putting a pane of glass in her window, and, 
stepping back to admire his work, thrust his foot 
and leg through the floor, smashing a beautiful 
paper kite that was suspended from the ceiling 
below, and 'astonishing all the customers. So, after 
that, the hole was closed with a tin lid, to prevent 
accidents; but Marie used to take off the lid every 
night, just before going to bed, in order to hear 
if all was quiet in the store. Now, on this parti¬ 
cular night of which I speak, she was waked up by 
an odd confusion of noises, coming up through the 
stove-pipe hole—a chattering and scolding, and tit¬ 
tering and piping, and barking and squealing, and 
whinnying and drumming, and bubbling and rolling, 
and thumping and rattling, and scraping and hissing, 
with other kinds of racket too numerous to mention. 
At first she thought it was thieves; but she remem¬ 
bered that thieves would not make a noise if they 
could help it; and, as the hubbub continued, she 
crept out of bed, .and lay down on the floor, with 
her face over the stove-pipe hole. In this way she 




THE STOVE-PIPE HOLE. 

“Marie lay down on the floor , with her face over the stove-pipe hole . In this way 
she could get a good view of the whole store .”—Page 81. 
















































































































































or, the Ways of the World ’ 81 

could get a good view of the* whole store. To her 
surprise, it was brilliantly lighted; but when she 
looked more closely, she saw that the gas was not 
burning. Wonderful to relate, six dozen little can¬ 
dles for Christmas-trees, which she had laid on a 
shelf that very day, had hopped down and somehow 
lit themselves, and there they . stood in a shining 
row, all round the store, looking very handsome, 
with their taper waists and their waxen complexions. 

But that was not so wonderful as the rest that 
she saw ; for everything in the store had waked 
up, and was exhibiting its gifts and graces. All the 
dolls were active. Those that had joints were prac¬ 
tising calisthenics on the top of the show-case; the 
gutta-percha dolls were tumbling on the floor, to 
show that they could not be broken like other 

dolls; a whole line of fashionable ladies, with water¬ 
falls, were solemnly opening and shutting their eyes 
with a little click; three or four who knew how to 
cry were practising in different keys; and a vast 
multitude of stiff, cheap little things were standing 
on their heads, because that was all they could do. 
There were two shelves filled with dolls’ heads, that 

looked like the cherubs in pictures; and these could 

only gaze placidly at the general fun, for their 

bodies were all packed away in the cellar. 

The great Noah’s ark had opened by the roof, 
just as all Noah’s arks do, and Noah and his wife, 


82 


Hoyty- Toyty ; 


and his sons and their wives, followed by elephants, 
camels, and roosters, two and two, were walking in 
grand procession, like a young ladies’ boarding- 

school, along the counter. A backgammon-board 
was the scene of a great quarrel; the white men 

were accused by the black men of cheating, and 

taking people up by main force when they were 

not exposed; and the dice were all throwing double 

sixes as loud as ever they could, to show that they 
understood the matter. Two swords were fighting 
in a corner—a tin sword and an iron one. The tin 
sword was getting the worst of it, and it was high 
time for the seconds to interfere; but the drumsticks, 
who were to act as seconds, had got up a scrim¬ 
mage of their own on the top of the drum, where 
they were rolling over and over in a rough-and- 
tumble way, now one and now the other being 
uppermost. A woolly dog on wheels went trundling 
around, and barking whenever anybody stepped on 
him. A dancing-jack hung mournfully on a nail, 
with his head, arms, and legs drooping. Poor fellow l 
he wanted very much to dance, but he couldn’t 
untie his neck, and everybody was too busy to 
come and pull the string that made his limbs go. 
The books did not join in the general row-de-row. 
They were too refined and aristocratic, and said to 
themselves: ‘‘We titled people, that have pages, 
must not mix with the vulgar rabble.” And down 


or, the Ways of the World . 83 

under the counter a boxful of valentines were sound 
asleep. Nobody noticed them; they were of no 
account till February. Perhaps the most comical 
sight of all was a little india-rubber dwarf, who had 
undertaken to waddle across the store, and got 
caught under the rocker of a huge, prancing hobby¬ 
horse. The expression of the dwarf’s countenance, 
when the hobby-horse flattened it, was so changed 
that his own mother in India wouldn’t have known 
him. Marie almost laughed outright when her eye 
fell on him; but she restrained herself, for fear of 
betraying her- presence, and continued to look and 
listen with all her might. 

» Now it happened that Karl, before he went to 
sea, used to play in a band; and his trombone, 
kept bright and clean by loving hands, always hung, 
in memory of him, over Father Bernard’s desk. In 
the midst of the uproar the trombone spoke out, so 
gruffly and loud that everything stopped to hear. 
“You silly greenhorns,” said the trombone, “what 
do you know about life? You have only just come 
out of the dark, and the straw is sticking to you 
yet. Look at me; I have seen the world ! It is 
full of operas, and target excursions, and concerts 
with trombone solos. Life is a great thing, and if 
you want to talk sensibly about it, just wait till 
you have had some sense blown into you. Come 
back here a week after New-Year’s, and compare 


3 4 


Hoyty- Toyty ; 


notes! ” At this rude speech, some of the tin 
trumpets squeaked to one another, “ What brazen 
impertinence! ” but the trombone’s remarks produced 
on the whole a profound impression, especially as 
his ponderous breath blew out all the candles. There 
was considerable bustle occasioned by the different 
articles trying to return in the dark to their old 
places; but silence soon prevailed; and Marie was 
glad to get back to her warm bed. 

Next morning the store looked exactly as usual, 
except that there were little spots of wax everywhere, 
and the india-rubber dwarf had not quite recovered 
his usual elasticity of temperament. If it had not 
been for these signs, Marie would have thought she 
had been dreaming merely; but now she was sure 
that everything had really happened ; and she looked 
forward with great interest to know whether the 
suggestions of the trombone would be acted upon, 
and the toys would return after the holidays to 
compare notes and relate their experience of life. 


III. 

HO W THE TO YS WENT. 

ALMOST as soon as the store was open, a richly 
dressed lady came in, leading a little boy. She 
showed him everything, and tried to find out what 


or, the Ways of the World ’ 85 

he would like best. But the little boy was sulky 
and ill-natured, and said he was tired of such things; 
he had had so many, and they always went and 
broke themselves; he hated books, and wanted a 
real pistol that would shoot; and if he couldn’t 
have a pistol he would smash a looking-glass when 
he got home. Finally, to pacify him, the lady 
bought a number of candy dogs and other animals, 
one of which he put in his mouth, and so forgot 
the pistol and allowed himself to be taken home. 
A few hours after, the lady came back alone, and 
to Marie’s surprise, bought the big rocking-horse, a 
sled, a drum, a sword, a Noah’s ark, and the bark¬ 
ing woolly dog. She even looked up at the trom¬ 
bone ; but Father Bernard said, hastily, “ That is 
not for sale, madam,” so she contented herself with 
one of the tin trumpets. “ I thought your little 
boy did not like any of these things,” said Marie, 
as she tied up the packages, to be sent by the ex¬ 
press-wagon to the lady’s house in Fifth Avenue. 
“ O, that is only his way; he will be very angry if 
he does not get them.” Marie could not help won¬ 
dering what kind of a home it could be that was 
so splendid and yet made people so discontented. 
“These playthings will have something interesting to 
tell,” thought she, “when they come back after 
New-Year’s.” But she did not expect • the candy 
dogs to return; for, between you and me, animals 


86 


Hoyty - Toyty ; 


of that class are not well fitted to explore life. 
They are sweet-tempered, but not firm; and after 
they start on their travels, they are never heard of 
again. Unlike other dogs, if they once get bitten, 
that is the end of them. Only one breed of them 
ever bites back; and that contains pepper, and is 
not popular. 

By and by a gentleman came and looked about, 
quite bewildered, among the toys. He was in a 
great hurry; and said, half to himself: “ The child 
must have something. Christmas is such a nuisance! 
I suppose a doll will be the correct thing.” With 
that he bought the largest and most expensive doll 
in the whole collection—a stuck-up, waxy, French 
thing, with blonde hair and movable eyes, and an 
arrangement for crying under its corsets, and no end 
of flounces and furbelows. Then he went off mut¬ 
tering, “ There, that's done ! ” 

It quite saddened Marie to have people buying 
presents for their children in such a’ spirit; but she 
smiled brightly again as a quiet boy of about twelve 
years came in. “ If you please,” said he, “ I should 
like to look at some broken toys that you could 
sell cheap. My little brother is a cripple, and lies 
in bed all day; and he thinks so much of toys. I 
thought perhaps I could mend up some old ones 
for him.” “ Why don’t your father buy something 
for the child ? ” said old Bernard, turning his back 


or> the Ways of the World . 87 

upon the boy, and rummaging busily in a pile of 
pasteboard boxes. The. lad’s eyes filled with tears 
as he said slowly: “ Father and mother are both 
dead; and I take care of Jamie.” “ H’m! ” said 
the old man, turning around, with a small flat pack¬ 
age in his hand, “ I thought as much! I’ve heard 
of you. We don’t break things here and then sell 
them cheap to such fellows as you ! ” O, how hard 
the grandfather tried to look stern and severe! but 
it was of no use. He couldn’t deceive Marie, nor 
prevent a smile and a tear on his own face; so he 
gave up trying, and added, in a very different tone: 
“God bless you, my boy! Take these to Jamie, 
with an old man’s love.” And what do you think? 
it was a box of paints! I could not possibly tell 
you how grateful the cripple’s brother was. He 

tried to tell, but he could not say anything; so 

why should I undertake it ? But, after all, he did 
not seem to be perfectly satisfied; and presently he 
murmured, “I wish they had some broken toys!” 
Marie heard him and understood him at once; so 
she said, “You wanted to give Jamie something 
your own self didn’t you ? ” “ O yes,” said he, 

“ this is just what he will like best, but it is not 

my work, nor my present. Besides, there are a 
great many poor children in our street; and Jamie 
and I were going to give them a Christmas party. 
You see ”—and by this time he had got back his 


88 


Hoyty- Toyty ; 


courage and his tongue—“ we have got a tree; 
and Jamie has made ever so many dolls out of 
paper; and the peanut-man is coming with a whole 
quart of peanuts; and I wanted to help too. I’ve 
got a knife and some glue, and I know how to 
mend things beautifully. Jamie says so. If we only 
had some broken toys, I could mend them and he 
could paint them, and we could hang them on the 
tree, just as, once before, a long time ago, father 
and mother—” 

“ Look here, Marie,” called Father Bernard, 
“ these wax tapers have all been half burned ! No¬ 
body will buy them now. How unfortunate! I 
really think we must throw them away, unless this 
young gentleman will consent to stick them on his 
Christmas-tree! And, by the way, there's that lady 
in.Fifth Avenue says all the things she bought last 
year are spoilt and broken, and heaped up in the 
garret. She’ll give them to any boy that will carry 
them away. So there’s a chance for you, my boy! ” 

Marie had just time to give the happy boy the 
box of tapers and the lady’s address, when new 
customers arrived, in the persons of a pleasant 
couple, who were evidently husband and wife, and 
who, as one might see from the happy mixture of 
love and care in their faces, had a troop of little 
ones at home. They spent a good while looking 
at various things, and asking their prices. The work 


or ; the Ways of the World, 89 

of selection was evidently a matter of importance to 
them, and they took great pleasure as well as pains 
with it. At last the wife said: “ My dear, every¬ 
thing is so expensive this year; don’t you think we 
had better get something that will entertain us all ? 
That we can afford to have of the best kind.” 
The husband looked admiringly at her for this sen¬ 
sible suggestion, which, he said, was “just like her”; 
and finally they selected the backgammon-board, 
together with a box of ninepins for the younger 
children and the baby. “ Though, after alt,” laughed 
the good man, “ I don’t know but I shall want to 
play ninepins a good deal myself.” Marie offered to 
send ’the 'bundles home, but they said no; it was 
much pleasanter to carry one’s own packages at 
Christmas-time. Having paid for their purchases, 
they still lingered, each making innocent excuses to 
detain the other, and both quite willing to be de¬ 
tained. Presently the husband sauntered to the back 
part of the store, and, gleefully chuckling to find 
that his wife did not follow, hurriedly bought of 
Marie a beautiful work-box, upon which he had 
already cast many a glance. At the very same mo¬ 
ment the wife, in the slyest possible manner, pur¬ 
chased of Father Bernard a writing-desk. If you 
had stood just half-way down the store, between 
the two, you would have heard on either side a 
whisper, “ I guess you can send that home; it is 


9 o 


Hoyty - Toyty ; 


almost too heavy to carry.” And then you would 
have seen the affectionate couple depart, with happy 
secrets weighing on their hearts, saying to one an¬ 
other, “ The 'children will be so well pleased, and 
we shall enjoy their presents so much, that we 
shall not mind going without, ourselves—hey?” 

After this, a great, fat, rich, jolly old bachelor 
came in, and was greeted as a well-known friend 
by the grandfather. “ Look here, Bernard,” said he, 
“ believe your shop will be the ruin of me! Can’t 
get by your- windows to save my life. Never saw 
such windows! Everybody stops to look at ’em; 
and they are flattening the noses of all the children 
in town. Pretty lot of snubs the next generation 
will have, at this rate ! Well, well! here’s my mis¬ 
sionary fund; smaller than usual, this year; hard 
times—never should know it, though, if I wasn’t 
told ; you know what to do with it; give a thing¬ 
amy, to every little heathen that comes along!” 
He laid a twenty-dollar note on the counter, winked 
merrily at Marie, and went across the street to the 
poultry-shop. 

But I cannot stop to describe all the people 
that came to buy. There were crowds of them, 
and Bernard did a very handsome business. By 
New-Year’s the shelves were half empty, the rush 
had ceased, and the old man and his granddaughter 
were glad to rest. 


or, the Ways of the World. 


9i 


IV. 

HOW THE TOYS RETURNED . 

Marie was so busy during the holidays that she 
gradually ceased to think of the queer events re¬ 
lated in the second chapter of this history; and, 
although she had not really forgotten the suggestion 
of the trombone, it happened that she went to bed 
on the 8th of January without having it* in mind. 
But at midnight she was aroused by a bustle in 
the room below, and a knocking and scratching at 
the front door. Quickly she betook herself to her 
post of observation at the stove-pipe hole; but this 
time she was thoughtful enough to dress herself, 
and to roll herself up, besides, in a blanket, so 
that she might watch and listen at her ease. The 
shop was dark, and the trombone was saying, in a 
supernatural whisper, “ There they are; has anybody 
got a light ? ” There was no answer at first; but 
presently a parlor-match remarked that “ if anybody 
would hoist him up, he wouldn’t mind lighting the 
gas, for once in his life.” Thereupon a patent fish- 
pole hopped out of the corner, done up in a bag, 
like a Scotchman in a sack-race, and said he would 
hoist. “You! you are not tall enough,” cried several 
voices. “Just untie the top of this bag,” said the 
fish-pole, “ and I’ll show you.” So a clothes-pin 


92 


Hoyty- Toyty ; 


kindly untied the neck of the bag, and the fish- 
pole rapidly put his joints together, and shot up¬ 
wards to the ceiling. “ Ah! ” said he, “ one gets 
cramped by being doubled up so long, and needs to 
stretch one’s self.” Then the clothes-pin climbed 
nimbly up the pole, and seated himself astride of 
the gas-pipe; the parlor-match perched himself on 
the point of the fish-hook, and the reel wound up 
the line, until he came opposite the burner. When 
all was ready, the clothes-pin turned on the gas, 
and the match, after considerable scratching, man¬ 
aged 'to light it; but immediately lost its balance, 
and fell to the floor, quite black in the face. This 
unfortunate occurrence caused some dismay. The 
body of the victim was found to be quite cold. 
Sandpaper had no effect upon him ; and the attempt 
to resuscitate him was given up, on the remark of 
a wise old broom, who said: “ It’s no use; that 
sort of thing is hereditary with the family. They 
always die, sooner or later, in this way. I have 
had to pick up hundreds of them, and send them 
to the dust-pan.” 

All this time the knocking continued at the door; 
and as soon as order was partially restored, the 
trombone called out, “ Somebody pull back that 
bolt!” To this the bolt replied, “You needn’t lay 
hands on me! I won’t be pulled back by anybody.” 
And then, for fear its boast might be falsified (for 


or , the Ways of the World. 


93 


the tongs and screw-driver and .a whole box of tools 
were already making lively preparations), it flew 
back of its own accord, and the door burst open, 
admitting a queer procession. 

First of all came the rocking-horse, but, ah! how 
changed! His flowing tail had been, I assure you, 
literally pulled out by the roots; his mane was all 
tied up in hard knots, to make it curl; there was 
a great gash whittled in his handsome neck, where 

somebody had bled him, on the pretence that he 

was sick; and the color of his once fiery mouth 

and nostrils showed that on the same occasioh he 

had been physicked from an ink-bottle. His saddle, 
which wasn’t meant to come off, had been taken 
off by main force, bringing the skin with it; and, 
to crown all, his new owner, getting tired of his ori¬ 
ginal fine dapple-gray color, had determined to make 
a blue horse of him, but, after daubing him with 
indigo on one side, had got tired of that too, and 
left him in disgust. He seemed quite dispirited, 
and meekly drew behind him the sled, which was 
considerably the worse for wear, having had several 
collisions with those rude sleds which vulgar boys 
make for themselves out of plank, and which are 
as vicious as they are ugly, and always smash what 
they run into. On the front of the sled sat sadly 
what was once the woolly dog; but somebody had 
torn off his pneumatic attachment, to see what 


94 


Hoyty- Toyty ; 


made him bark; and then, because he couldn’t bark 
any more, had made believe he was a sheep, and 
sheared him. The drum had had his hamstrings cut, 
and a hole punched in his head, in which hole a 
solitary drum-stick was now standing. The sword 
was terribly rusty from having been used to cut 
apples, and the scabbard was lost in a molasses- 
hogshead. A shapeless mass of tin was all that 
remained of the tin trumpet, who had been thrown 
at a cat from a third-story window. All these 
returned wanderers were in such wretched condition 
as to be unable to give any account of themselves. 
The sled could only groan over his feeble frame; 
the hole in the drum’s head showed it to be per¬ 
fectly empty, so his silence was a mercy; the sword, 
who had formerly been a keen young blade, was 
too dull to enter into conversation; the tin trumpet 
had had the breath squeezed out of him, and was 
now a mere useless ornament to society. As for 
the woolly dog, his lungs were absolutely gone, and 
it was a wonder that he lived at all. The big 
rocking-horse could still speak; but his woe seemed 
to affect his wits, for when they asked him if he 
could tell his experience, he feebly replied, “Nay”; 
and as he adhered to this reply, whatever was said 
to him, the attempt to get a story out of him was 
soon given up. It was fortunate for history that 
Noah and his family were not all destroyed, though 


or, the Ways of the World. 95 

the ark had lost its roof and all the paint from its 
side, and few of its inmates had escaped injury, 
more or less severe. Silence reigned in the shop, 
as the mournful procession emerged from the ark. 
The usual discipline was maintained, though the 
couples had to be in many cases rearranged, on 

account of missing parties. Thus, Noah walked 

with Japheth’s wife; and two widowers, an elephant 
and a gander, were paired off together, since, having 
both lost their legs as well as their mates, they 
were nearly alike in shape and size. Having 

marched them once round the ark, Noah assumed 

an oratorical position, with his hands close to his 
sides, and made a few remarks in Hebrew, which 
were kindly translated to the company by a jew’s- 
harp. 

He began with an account erf the flood ; but his 
ideas on that subject seemed to be quite confused; 
and Marie, after listening closely for a while, said 
to herself, “ Why, the old fool is describing a bath¬ 
tub, with the hot and cold water running for forty 
days and forty nights. I wonder if he calls that a 
flood! ” But Noah, not hearing this sarcastic criti¬ 
cism, went on to complain of the ark as leaky, and 
to relate how it finally filled and went to the bot¬ 
tom, so that they all had to open the roof and 
swim for their lives. After bobbing about for weeks, 
according to his account, they were fished out, and 


9 6 


Hoyty- Toyty ; 


put before a fire, to dry; but, O this wicked world! 
that terrible boy broke off the arms and legs oi 
one animal after another, and then threw the bodies 
in the fire. “ Such a family government! ” said 
Noah. “ In my day, children were not allowed to 
kick, and howl, and disobey their parents. But this 
boy’s father and mother were as bad as he, snap¬ 
ping, and quarrelling, and scolding the servants, 
whipping the boy to make him cry, and then coax¬ 
ing him with candy to stop crying. This world 
isn’t a bit like your description, Mr. Trombone; it’s 
a wicked, unhappy, noisy world, and it ought to be 
drowned over again.” 

Just then who should come in but the “Life of 
George Washington! ” At least that was the title ; 
but on opening itself it turned out to be the back¬ 
gammon-board. In a merry way the dice rattled off 
their story, to the effect that the work-box and the 
writing-desk had been so busy that they purposed* 
not to come; in fact, they were better off where 
they were. “ We only came ourselves,” put in the 
white and black men, “ because we promised; and 
we mean to get back.” “ Gammon! ” said Noah, 
who didn’t believe a word of it, “ I saw a lot just 
like you, all scattered and dirty, in the ash-barrel, 
where I accidentally fell myself, by mistake.” “ There 
is some misunderstanding about that,” replied the 
jolly men. “ One of us fell down the cellar grating, 


or, the Ways of the World, 


97 


to be sure; but the whole family hunted for him and 
brought him back. We are appreciated where we 
live! Such lively games! Last night one of the 
boys backgammoned the other three times running; 
and all so good-naturedly, you wouldn’t have known 
which beat! It’s a pleasant world ! ” “ That’s so/ 

said the ninepins, who came hopping in, “ and there 
are nice babies in it that everybody loves and plays 
with.” “Well, I never!” muttered Noah, as he 
marshalled his decimated family back into the di¬ 
lapidated ark. 

But who could this be, who now entered with 
such a bedraggled mien and decrepit step ? It was 
the gorgeous French doll, who courtesied to the 
company with a remnant of her former grace, and 
said, plaintively: “You know, my friends, that 
which I was; you see that which I am. Alas! it 
is a perfidious world. I am purchased by a charm¬ 
ing gentleman, who carried me home under his arm, 
whispering compliments to me all the way of my 
beauty and my preciousness.” “ Come, now,” said 
the trombone, bluntly, “none of your fine French 
fibs. What did he say?” The doll was too 
wretched to take offence, so she continued meekly: 
“ I thought he said I was very dear to him, and 
he should never want another as long as he lived ; 
but possibly I misunderstood him.” One last effort 
she made to practise her accomplishment of rolling 


Hoyty - Toyty ; 


98 

up her fine eyes, but her optic nerves were out of 
order, and the eyes stuck fast, halfway, giving her 
a ludicrous instead of a pathetic expression. But 
she went on talking. “ When I arrive at the man¬ 
sion, I am put in a dark drawer till to-morrow. 
When to-morrow comes, a sweet, pale little girl, 
very finely dressed, and with the true Parisian man¬ 
ner, receives me—no, I am displayed to her; and 
the mamma says, ‘ No, my dear, you might hurt 
it; and, besides, you must not play on the floor; 
it is not lady-like.’ The little girl looks at me, 
and says, * Please, mamma, may I have a rag-baby?’ 
And the mamma says, ‘ Now, my child, you are 
ungrateful. Sophie, take mademoiselle to the nurs¬ 
ery, and put this doll away in the drawer! ’ O 
how I pity the little girl and myself! But when 
we are out of the room Sophie says to the little 
girl, ‘Your mother is a cruel woman, but I love 
you and I will be good to you. You shall have 
the doll to play with all the afternoon, and we 
shall not tell my lady anything about it ; and I am 
going out for a while to see my cousin, and we 
shall not tell her that either. The little girl says, 
‘ My old nurse, who was here before I came, used 
to say it was wrong to do things secretly, and I 
would rather not ’ ; but Sophie shakes her a little 
and calls her in French a few names, and the child 
wants to play with me so much that she yields, of 


or, the Ways of the World. 


99 


which I am so glad for the moment! But before 
Sophie comes back from her walk, my nose is 
melted away by being put to sleep behind the 
stove, and my delicate chest is let to tumble over 
on the floor and break. Then mademoiselle is 
frightened of being found out, and Sophie finds her 
crying, and says to her, ‘ The ugly, naughty doll! 
We will throw it out of the window, and tell your 
mother it was the housemaid who stole it.’ I do 
not hear what the little girl says, for I am brutally 
seized and thrown through the air. I strike in the 
gutter and break my side-bone, and a great deal 
of sawdust bleeds out from me before I can creep 

away and hide. It takes me two weeks to get here, 

for I am ashamed to travel by day, and I lose so 

much sawdust at every step that I cannot go far. 
The world is triste , and I intend to take the veil 
and retire into a convent, unless I shall die first 
of hemorrhage.” Here the unfortunate Parisian lady 
fainted away. 

A rush of cold air revived her, as the door was 
again flung open, and a great crowd of toys of all 
sorts entered, all laughing and talking at once. 

Some of them were more or less crippled, but they 
did not seem to care. “ Yes,” said a jolly little 
drummer, u I’ve lost an arm; but I don’t mind it 
much. One must see life! Besides, little Bob Ma¬ 
guire, who broke it off, cried over me like a baby ; 


IOO 


Hoyty-Toyty ; 


and the other boys in the street told him to save 
the arm, and Jamie’s big brother would put it on 
again, as good as new. I see you’ve lost your nose, 
ma’am,” continued the little drummer, touching his 
cap with his drum-stick (which he never laid down, 
although for the present he could not drum), “ I 
shouldn’t wonder if they could give you an artificial 
nose, made of wax, which looks quite natural, I 
assure you. It’s a wonderful world ! ” This light¬ 
hearted fellow and his companions had been pre¬ 
sented by Bernard, at the fat old bachelor’s desire, 
to the poor children of the neighborhood ; and I 
must confess they looked and felt a great deal bet¬ 
ter than the unfortunate beings who had been sent 
up to Fifth Avenue. Each of them had a story 
to tell, but they all talked at once, and the only 
thing to be gathered from their merry confusion 
was the fact that they had made everybody happy 
where they went. I suspect that was the reason 
they felt so happy themselves; but this is a great 
secret, and must not be mentioned on any account. 

Once more the door opened, and in came another 
crowd, dragging a little cart, in which was a beau¬ 
tiful Christmas-tree. All over the tree were perched 
the wax-tapers. They had lost a good deal of flesh 
since they left the shop a fortnight before; but on 
the whole they seemed well preserved, and their 
feathers of flame waved over their heads proudly. 


or, the Ways of the World . ioi 

All the rest of this throng seemed to be strangers, 
until the trombone, who had lived in the shop two 
years, in fact, ever since Karl went to sea, shouted, 
“ Why, I thought you were all dead and gone long 
ago! Where did you get your new coats, and how 
happened you to be looking so well and hearty ? ” 
Then it came out that these were second-hand toys, 
collected and repaired by Jamie's brother, and painted 
by Jamie himself, so that they were handsomer than 
they ever had been before ; and the celebration of 
Christmas, at which they had assisted, was the most 
brilliant thing ever seen. The tree was so magnificent 
that all the children cried for joy when they saw it; 
and it had been lit up for five minutes every night 
since Christmas, and every night a new set of 
visitors had been invited. Once it was the news¬ 
boys ; and they clubbed together, and presented 
Jamie with a year’s subscription to Harpers Maga¬ 
zine, in token of their thanks. Once it was the 
class in the Sunday-school to which Jamie belonged, 
before he was so ill; and they hung up over the 
foot of his bed a splendid illuminated card, with 
the words, “Faith, Hope , Love; but the greatest of 
these is Love." Another night came the shoeblacks; 
and after they had received Jamie’s cheerful greet¬ 
ings, and seen the tree, and each received some 
little gift from his entertainers, they held a meeting 
in the entry, and passed resolutions of thanks, in 


102 


Hoyty -1 'oyty ; 


which Jamie and his brother were alluded to as 
their “distinguished fellow-citizens,” and it was de¬ 
clared that no member of the Shoeblacks’ Co-ope¬ 
rative Association should ever accept any remunera¬ 
tion for blacking their shoes. You may think this 
was not particularly munificent, but, if so, you 
haven’t much experience. For my part, I think to 
black a man’s shoes for nothing is a sign of great 
affection and respect. I only do it for one person 
in the world, and that is myself. But, to return to 
the subject of the Christmas-tree, it certainly did 
seem, judging from the accounts of these last 
comers, as if nothing had ever before given so 
much pleasure to so many people. 

There would have been apparently no end to 
their wonderful stories, had not suddenly a double¬ 
knock sounded on the door. Instantly the lights 
went out, the door opened, and the toys all rushed 
out pell-mell, while a man’s voice said, “ Why, the 
door opened of itself! and what a draught of wind. 
It almost knocked me over.” Marie started up as 
she heard the voice, and eagerly listened for more. 
But the stranger did not speak again. A moment 
after, however, she heard a step in the store; then 
all was silent, and then , oh! then the trombone began 
to play softly the Ranz des Vaches. Marie sprang 
up, rushed down-stairs, crying, “ Karl ! Karl! ” and 
was locked in her brother’s arms! 



KARL’S RETURN. 

“ The toys all rushed out pell-mell, while a titan's voice said, ‘ I Thy, the door 
opened of itself! and what a draught of wind!’ ”—Page 102. 
































































































































































or, the Ways of the World . 


103 


Presently Father Bernard appeared with a light, 
for the Ranz des Vaches was a tune he could not 
hear and keep quiet. It was his favorite Swiss air, 
and he had taught it to Karl’s father and to Karl. 
How happy was the old man to find it was Karl’s 
own self who played the dear old melody! And who 
cares where Karl had been, or how he happened 
to land and come home at midnight ? Father 
Bernard and Marie forgot all about the past, in 
their joy that Karl was once more at home; and 
if they did not ask questions at first, it is of course 
none of our business. 

It was my intention, in writing out this story 
for publication, to wind up with a moral; but you 
children are so apt to skip the story, and read the 
moral only, that I have changed my mind, and 
sprinkled it all along at intervals in the story itself. 
As for the Bernard family, when they have lived 
the remainder of their lives, it will be time enough 
to complete their history. That sort of thing cannot 
be safely done beforehand. 


Santa Claus in Spite of Himself. 


RTHUR and the rest of the children 
had been put to bed long ago, and 

Father and Mother and Aunt Susan had 
at last retired also, one by one, after 
a great deal of manoeuvring. For you 
see, each of them wanted to be the 

last to go, in order to put a final 
touch to the stockings and piles of 

presents, after the others had departed. So they 

kept hanging around and hanging around, until at 
last Aunt Susan broke out : 

“Now what’s the use of making believe? I 

know you two have got a present for me that you 
don’t wish me to see till morning—bless your dear 
hearts!—and you know that Fve got a trifle for 
you that you mustn’t see till morning. But we 

can’t go on shassaying about and all trying to be 
left behind in the parlor. Now, Jenny, do be sen¬ 
sible, and go 16 bed. You look tired to death. 

If you’ve got a lollypop for me, dump it in the 

corner there; and I’ll not peep.” 



io 4 



Santa Claus in Spite of Himself 105 

This sensible suggestion of Aunt Susan’s led to 
a general treaty of armed neutrality. Arthur's father 
turned his face to the wall, while the two ladies 
arranged a pile of mysterious packages in one cor¬ 
ner ; then each of the ladies in turn contemplated 
the hall door while a rustling arrangement of pre¬ 
sents went on behind her; and finally all three “ took 
hold of hands ” and went solemnly giggling out of 
the parlor, with their eyes bent upon the floor. Then 
there was some laughter on the stairs, and a shut¬ 
ting of bed-room doors, and after that, silence. 

Of the four children, Arthur, who is next to the 
youngest, is the only one I shall mention particu¬ 
larly in my story. He was a bright little boy, who 
had just begun to go to school, and come in con¬ 
tact with the rough side of the world. Like many 
children brought up in a loving home-circle, he was 
sensitive and timid; that is, timid about some 
things, though brave enough in others. For instance, 
he wasn’t afraid of the dark, or of ghosts, because 
nobody had ever stuffed him with superstitious non¬ 
sense on such subjects; but he was very much 
shocked and frightened by the rude boys at the 
school, with their rough plays and practical jokes, 
their ridicule and slang, and sometimes their wicked 
words. One boy especially seemed to delight in 
tormenting him—Bob Manning, a hard-headed, freck¬ 
led, active fellow, who wore ragged clothes, and 


io6 


Santa Claus 


tyrannized over all the boys that were well dressed. 
Bob’s father was a laborer, who had had “ bad 
luck ” in life, losing first his little savings, then his 
wife, and finally his good habits and good temper, 
and becoming a harsh, reckless, desperate man— 
though he never treated Bob to anything worse than 
angry words. But the boy, hearing nothing at 
home but complaints of poverty and envious, sav¬ 
age talk about rich people, came to consider all 
such people as natural enemies; and though he was 
not at heart more cruel than other thoughtless chil¬ 
dren, he enjoyed teasing and paining his school¬ 
mates. 

The day before Christmas, Arthur came home with 
a sad story of small persecutions. Bob Manning had 
said his new brass buttons were tc looney,” and no 
feller would wear such buttons as them; and this 
opinion he had enforced by slyly cutting off a couple 
with his jack-knife, and dropping them into the gut¬ 
ter. Moreover, he had scrubbed Arthur’s face with 
snow, because, he said, his mammy didn’t wash him 
enough; and he had wiped out an elaborate picture 
of a locomotive and train of cars, which Arthur had 
drawn with much pains, during three recesses, on 
his slate. 

“ Slates is all nonsense,” said Bob ; “ look a’ me ! 
/ an’t got no slate, and I can lick any feller in 
school.” 


In Spite of Himself 107 

Arthur’s mother was highly indignant, and said 
it was a shame that such boys should be allowed 
to come to school, and that she thought her boy 
ought to be taken away. But his father, who be¬ 
lieved in the public schools, said : “ My dear, it is 
good for the boy to be knocked about a little. Of 
course, we must watch that his principles are not 
corrupted; but I have too much faith in his home¬ 
training to be afraid of that; and really, I think 
that, having a child who is gentle and intelligent, 
and will not lie, nor steal, nor swear, it is our duty 
to send him where his influence will reach other 
children. He will give and receive benefit. As for 
the bad boys, unless they are a hundred times worse 
than anything I have heard of Bob Manning, they 
certainly ought to go to school. It is a good sign 
in Bob and his father that the youngster goes so 
regularly. Depend upon it, he may make a good 
citizen yet. In short, there are two classes of boys 
who should by all means attend the common schools, 
namely, good boys and bad ones.” 

Arthur’s mother meditated upon these remarks, 
and although she was not fully convinced, resolved 
to make the best of the case. So she had a long, 
sweet mother-talk with her little son, in which 
she roused him to enthusiastic pity for poor Bob, 
who had no pleasant home and loving friends. “ Per¬ 
haps,” said she, “if you saw all the other boys pro- 


Santa Claus 


108 

vided with books and toys and handsome things, 
while you were obliged to go without them, you 
too would be envious and use bitter words—though 
I hope not.” 

“Yes,” said Arthur, “that’s just what George 
Seeley said: that Bob Manning was jealous because 
he hadn’t got any slate—and, mother, I was to 
blame just a little, because when my picture was 
done, I held it up and whispered to him, didn’t he 
wish he could draw like that ? And then he leaned 
clear over and rubbed it all out! ” 

“ Poor Bob! ” said the mother, and waited for 
Arthur’s thoughts; for she knew the secret, that 
the good things that people think out for themselves 
are worth more, a thousand times, than those which 
they are told of by others. But Arthur said not a 
word, and soon after marched off to bed, only en¬ 
quiring “about what time Santa Claus would come?” 
—a question which no one was ready to answer. 

So now all were in bed, the house was still, and the 
parlor was dark, except for the light that came from 
the fireplace, where the last of the cannel-coal burned 
yet, flickering up every few minutes into a merry blaze. 

It must have been at least an hour before this 
that Bob’s father, going sullenly through the street, 
had come in* front of the house. Everything com¬ 
bined to make him more angry with the world than 
usual. He had been discharged from work that day, 


In Spite of Himself 109 

because there was no more work to do; and in his 
despair he had been so foolish and wicked as to waste 
in drink the few shillings he had laid by, to give 
his boy, “ for once in his life, a bit of a Christ¬ 
mas.” He wasn’t drunk, but he meant to be so 
next day; and he carried a jug in his hand which 
contained, as he said to himself, all he had got in 
the world. He did not know who lived in Arthur’s 
house; but the lights and merry voices attracted him, 
and hiding in the shadow of the porch, he peered 
through the blinds, and saw the children, after a 
good-night kiss all round, go off to bed. 

Then he saw the grown folks displaying and ar¬ 
ranging the presents ; he saw the stockings filled and 
labelled, and “ hung up by the chimney with care ”; 
he saw the larger presents, beautiful books and toys 
and shining jewelry, shown about, wrapped up again, 
and laid away in their proper heaps; and as he 
watched everything with absorbed interest, his 
thoughts grew even harder and more stern, until he 
cursed the happy people who could show their mu¬ 
tual love in so many ways, while he and his boy' 
“ might starve, for all these rich folks care.” He 

was a miserable and in some respects a bad man; 

but he was not a thief—not yet; only he had let 
into his heart the evil spirits of Envy and Covet¬ 
ousness and Hate, out of which comes every sin. 

After all was quiet in the house, he stood for a 


I IO 


Santa Claus 


long time in dark meditation, and then turned to 
go. But his foot struck the jug, which he had set 
down by his side ; and the jug struck the long win¬ 
dow, which came, like a door, down to the floor; 
and the window flew wide open. Amid the bustle 
of Christmas preparation everybody must have for¬ 
gotten to “ lock up.” In another instant Bob’s 
father was in the parlor, without knowing exactly 
why he had entered. 

Sinning is like sliding down hill; at first you go 
slow, and sometimes have to push the sled a little 
with your rudder-leg; but you get started, and go 
faster and faster, till at last you cannot stop if you 
want to. Bob’s father had got a good way down 
the hill, and now he hesitated no more, but, mut¬ 
tering to himself that his boy had as good a right 
to some of these fine gimcracks as anybody else, 
he stole softly to the fireplace and took down one 
of the stockings. 

But he did not hear the fall of little bare feet 
on the stairs, and across the carpeted floor; and a 
terrible tremor seized upon him when he felt a gen¬ 
tle pull at his shaggy coat. Turning in fear, he 
saw what he thought must be an apparition. There 
stood a bright-faced fellow in a white night-gown, 
holding in his hands a little tin savings-bank. The 
fire jumped up into fresh flame, and threw its light 
upon the gloomy man and*the fair child. 


In Spite of Himself 


111 


O Santa Claus!” said Arthur eagerly, “ I’m glad 
you’ve come! I’ve had a hard time to keep awake 
for you; but I would do it, and I did. You got 
in easy, I know, for I fixed the window for you, 
when nobody was looking, so you didn’t have to 
come down the chimney. And now you see you 
owe me a favor, don’t you? You needn’t turn 
away, I am not going to peek at the stockings. 
We know what’s in some of them, though, you and 
me—don’t we ? Father gave you that—you know 
what—for mother’s stocking, hey ! And the rest of 
the things are all right, of course. But that isn’t 
what I want to ask you. You see there’s a boy 
around at our school; he hasn’t got any slate or any¬ 
thing, and he feels bad about it, I know. He be¬ 
haves awful sometimes, and I didn’t like him a bit; 

but I mean to like him, if he will let me, for he 

only behaves bad because he feels so, you know. 
I didn’t think of that at first, and mother pitied 
him, and that made me think. And I’ve got ten 
cents left in my savings-bank; you just turn it up¬ 
side down and rattle it, and they will come out 
of the chimney—only not here, for it makes a dread¬ 
ful racket to draw money out of my savings-bank, 
and we might wake somebody. Now, Santa Claus, 
I want you to take this, and buy a slate—ten cents 

buys a bully slate; and there’s a man in Main 

Street, he gives a slate-pencil to boot—and give that 


I 12 


Santa Claus 


slate to him. When he has got a slate of his own, 
he won’t rub out other fellows’ slates, I guess. His 
name is Bob Manning; don’t you make any mis¬ 
take.” 

All this time Santa Claus said nothing, but 
looked first at the fire, then at the floor, and then 
at eager Arthur. In fact, if he had wanted ever 
so much to talk, he couldn’t have got a word in 
edgewise; for Arthur’s tongue went rattling on, as 
young folks’ tongues are apt to do, at hours when 
they ought to be in bed, but are not. But the 
boy expected no reply; he continued: 

“ You won’t say anything, I know that. Don’t 
I know* your ways? ‘ He spoke not a word , but went 
straight to his work /’ But you can nod, can’t you? 
Just lay your finger aside of your nose and give a 
nod, and I’ll know it’s all right.” 

Santa Claus deliberately hung up the stocking he 
had been holding, took Arthur’s savings-bank with 
one hand, laid the fingers of the other hand by his 
nose (in a most peculiar manner, I must say, for 
in doing it he rubbed his knuckles right in his eye), 
and gave three decided nods. Then suddenly look¬ 
ing at Arthur’s bare feet, he threw both arms around 
him, carried him noiselessly across the parlor carpet 
and the cold marble floor of the hall, and set him 
upon the stairs. 

“ Good-by,” whispered Arthur, “ dear old Santa 


In Spite of Himself, 113 

Claus! You’re not so funny, nor so handsome as 
your picture, but you’re real good ; anybody can 
see that.” And away he scampered to bed, while 
Bob’s father, clutching the savings-bank, crept back 
through the parlor and out at the window, saying 
over and over: 

4< ‘ Anybody can see that! ’ O my God, my God! ” 

Next morning the fragments of a broken jug 
were found on the sidewalk in front of the house. 
When school began after holidays, a sensation was 
produced by Bob Manning, who jumped on a fence- 
post during the first recess, and announced that Ar¬ 
thur was the bulliest boy that ever lived, and if 
anybody didn’t think so, he would like to see that 
person for a minute behind the shed. These cir¬ 
cumstances may not amount to much in themselves; 
but I fancy they were the beginnings of great good 
that will result from Arthur’s interview with the 
man who became Santa Claus in spite of himself, 
or rather from Arthur’s sympathy and generosity. 
One swallow doesn’t make a summer; but when the 
swallows begin to come, the summer is not far. 


GLORIOSO. . 


HOMAS lived in a beautiful house 
in the country, and had everything 
that heart could wish. His father 
was a lawyer of fame, and was ab¬ 
sent in town a good deal of the 

time. His mother died when he 
was a baby. So Thomas was left 
a good deal to himself, and spdnt 
most of his time reading fairy stories and learning 
how to behave in dealing with enchanted castles, 
fiery dragons, and wicked genii and sorcerers. At 
the time of this story he was twelve years old; 

and being perfectly versed in this kind of learning, 
he resolved to go out into the wide world to seek 
his fortune. He found in the geography a fine 

large kingdom, about half-way round the globe, di¬ 
rectly east from where he lived, and resolved to 
journey towards the sunrise until he reached the 
place; for, you see, it was part of his plan to 
marry the king’s daughter, and of course there was 
no chance of that in a country without a king. 

XI 4 






A Love Story . 


1 15 

He changed his name at once to Glorioso, in 
order to make it fit his princely title, when he 
should win one. And, early one morning, when 
the stage came by his fathers cottage, bound for 
the east, he “ hooked on behind,” and rode eight 
or ten miles before they found him out. Then he 
had to jump off in a hurry, to escape the driver’s 
long lash, and he couldn’t help feeling this method 
of travelling beneath the dignity of a prince. But 
nobody would know of it: so he sat down quite 
contentedly under a hedge, and began to resolve 
what to do next. While he was resolving he fell 

asleep, as a good many other people do under the 

same circumstances. Resolving is a tiresome busi¬ 
ness. Besides, he had spent the night before in 

resolving and preparing. So he slept all day. 
Towards evening he awoke, feeling quite hurigry, 
and thought it was time for some adventure which 
would bring him a supper. Of course something 

would happen. It always did in the stories; and 
it always does, when people are seeking their for¬ 
tunes. In fact, it is a universal rule, fit to be 
written in copy-books, that, wherever one is, some¬ 
thing is sure to happen, though it is not always a 
supper. In this case it was an old man who came 
trudging along the road, carrying a large bag. The 
moment Glorioso saw him he knew it was a ma¬ 
gician, against whom he must be on his guard. So 


Glorioso : 


116 

when the old man asked him his name and whither 
he was going, he concealed his real name of Glo¬ 
rioso, and replied that he was called Thomas, and 
was going to the next town to get work. The 
old man looked at him keenly, and said: “You’ll 
do; you had better come along with me. I have 
work for you.” At these words, our hero congratu¬ 
lated himself on his penetration ; for this was 
exactly the way a disguised magician would talk. 
He consented at once, remembering that it is 
necessary first to serve a magician faithfully, until 
you get his secret, then take him unawares, and 
bind him with his own most powerful charm deep 
in the lowest dungeon of his dark castle, and refuse 
to let him go, until he has secured for you the 
hand of the princess. So they trudged along to¬ 
gether. Presently the old man said: “ Thomas is 
a vulgar name. What is your other name?” This 
startled him a little; but there was no use in 
trying to deceive a magician ; so he said: “ Glori¬ 
oso.” “ Capital,” exclaimed the old man; “ it 

couldn’t have been better if you had chosen it for 
yourself! Your fortune is made!” 

At this, Glorioso could not forbear showing that 
he was no ordinary, ignorant boy; so he said 
acutely: “I suppose you mean to take me into 
your service, Mr. Magician.” The old man started, 
and looked at him sharply, then laughed and re- 


A Love Story . 


ii 7 


plied: “ Well, since you know I am a magician, I 
suppose there is no use in denying it. But we 
don’t like to be recognized until we get our robes 
on, and everything ready. ' It interferes with our 

plans. If I employ you, you must not tell any¬ 
body that you are connected with me, or know 

me.” Glorioso promised, and no more was said 

until they drew near the town, just at dark. 

“Go to the nearest inn,” said the wizard, “and 
get your supper and lodging. Here is money to 
pay for them. But after everybody is asleep, you 
must get up quietly, and come out here to meet 
me, and get your instructions for to-morrow.” Glo¬ 
rioso accordingly went to the nearest inn, and there 
he found supper just ready. This seemed to be 
another proof of the magician’s wisdom, that he 
should know when supper was ready at that par¬ 
ticular place; but the fact is, as I think best to 
confess here, that the magician knew when supper¬ 
time came by long experience, and not by magic 
at all. 

At the supper-table Glorioso overheard the peo¬ 
ple talking about the great wizard who was expected 
in town the next day. “ In fact,” said one, “ I 
should not wonder if he is here already. Only 
nobody knows him by sight.” “ How about the 
princess?” said another. “Oh! she must be here 
too. The giant has got her locked up somewhere.” 


118 Glorioso : 

If Glorioso had not read all the story-books, this 
conversation would probably have startled him some¬ 
what; but he was prepared for it beforehand by 
his studies, and so he only said to himself: “So 
I have the magician and the giant and the captive 
princess. Now I must wait till I find the good 
fairy. She cannot be far away! ” 

At midnight Glorioso stole out of his bedroom, 
and went to the edge of the town to meet his 
master, the wizard. To his surprise he found a 
large tent in the field where they had parted a few 
hours before. It was divided into a room of con¬ 
siderable size, and two smaller ones. In one of 
the smaller rooms, on a camp-stool, sat the magi¬ 
cian, smoking a pipe, and stirring something in a 
dish, over a charcoal furnace. Through the open 
space, from which a curtain had been drawn back, 
Glorioso saw that the large room contained a plat¬ 
form, in which there was a trap-door. On a pile 
of hay behind the wizard lay a huge form, snoring 
heavily, which he at once recognized as the giant. 
A helmet and a heavy club were on the ground 
at his side. Glorioso thought for an instant of 
pouring the mysterious broth on the magician, so 
as to scald him to death, and then hitting the 
giant over the head with his own club. But he 
gave up the idea, recollecting that it is not safe to 
play such games as that without the assistance of 


A Love Story . 


119 

a fairy or the wife of the ogre. Besides, he had 
not yet seen the princess; and a good deal would 

depend upon the question whether she was pretty 

or not; for Glorioso had a good heart, and had 
resolved, crown or no crown, not to marry without 
love—and whether he loved the princess, how could 
he tell without seeing her ? 

The magician looked up as he entered, and 

nodded kindly, saying: “Wait a few minutes, till I 
get through with my porridge. Hunting up the 
giant and the princess, and erecting the Temple of 
Sorcery here, has made my supper late, and given 
me an appetite. While I am eating, you can go 
into the Temple and dress yourself. You are a 

prince, you know; and yonder is your court dress.” 
This was a new proof of the wizard’s wonderful 
knowledge; for how should he know that Glorioso 
was a prince, when nobody had told him ? As for 
our hero himself, he took it all very coolly, being 
quite prepared for it, though his head might well 
have been turned at this sudden realization of his 
ambition. Only one day away from home, and a 
prince already ! 

He went into the Temple of Sorcery; which looked 
barren and gloomy enough, being only illuminated by 
the candle burning in the magician’s apartment, and 
by the misty moonlight, streaming in through an 
opening at the further end. Here he put on the 


120 


Glorioso : 


clothes which had been given him, and found that 
they fitted him exactly, as of course they would, 
being provided by a sorcerer. They were of bright 
colors, and flashed with jewels, evidently of the most 
precious varieties. There was also a diamond-hilted 
sword, just suitable for a prince, though it would 
not come out of its scabbard; and, finally, there 
was a velvet cap with a long feather, which Glorioso 
placed upon his head, and which made him feel, as 
well as look, several inches taller. When he was 
fully equipped, he turned around, as if to admire 
himself on all sides, though, as there were no looking- 
glasses, I am sure I don’t see how turning around 
could help him any, since his eyes turned with the 
rest of him. But when his revolution had brought 
his face towards the apartment corresponding to that 
of the magician, he saw that the curtain separating 
it from the Temple had been lifted ; and lo! there 
stood the loveliest little being imaginable, with golden 
hair and blue eyes, all dressed in white. She was 
looking at him and smiling; and he heard her say: 
“ So that is the new prince; he is very handsome.” 
And with that, seeing the prince’s eyes fixed upon 
her, she dropped the curtain in a hurry and dis¬ 
appeared. 

Glorioso’s heart rapped loudly at his ribs, as if 
saying: “That is she. Oh! let me get out and run 
after her.” But just then the sorcerer called out to 


A Love Story . 


I 2 I 


the giant: “Come, Lazybones, stir yourself! We 
must try this youngster. Wake up! or you’ll get 
no wages from me! ” With that, the giant arose 
slowly, and undoubled and stretched himself, until 
it seemed as if he would poke his head through the 
roof, yawning at the same time as though he would 
swallow the whole Temple. “ Hang the youngster,” 
he grumbled, “ what have I got to do with him ? 
I know what I have to do, well enough. The girl 
is my business. I thought, when the last prince 
ran away, you would not try any more of that 
nonsense.” 

“Be quiet, you fool,” replied the other, “he will 
hear you. I must have a prince, I tell you, for the 
last grand act/ where you carry them both off, one 
under each arm. I mean to shoot him too. That 
always has a fine effect.” 

Glorioso trembled just a little, when he overheard 
this terrible conversation; but he took courage when 
he remembered that all these schemes would certainly 
fail, because the innocence and beauty of the princess, 
and the bravery and ingenuity of the prince, and the 
power and friendship of the good fairy, are always 
too much for their malignant foes. In a moment 
more the giant and the magician entered the Temple 
of Sorcery. “ Pick him up,” said the wizard, “ and 
see if you can swing him.” With that the prince 
found himself, by a strong hand grasping his waist- 




12 2 Glorioso : 

band, suddenly lifted from the ground, and swung 
rapidly several times around the giant’s head. Then 
he was set down, dizzy and indignant. He imme¬ 
diately resolved upon vengeance, which, however, he 
thought it prudent to postpone. But now the magi¬ 
cian said to him, in a quick and peremptory way: 
“Jump upon the platform, and let me see whether 
you can stand fire. Here! I will show you what 
you are to do. You must take this bullet, and put 
it in your mouth. Then, when I fire at you, you 
must hold the bullet firmly between your teeth, so 
that it can be seen. That is the whole secret.” 
So Glorioso stood on the platform, while the magician 
loaded a pistol, took aim, and fired at him. He did 
not flinch at all; and his new master, well pleased, 
said the lesson was over, and they would all go to 
bed. So the giant returned to his heap of hay, and 
Glorioso was told to put on his old clothes again 
and return to the inn, since he had already paid 
his lodging there, and might as well get the worth 
of his money. Then the magician also, blowing out 
the candle, lay down opposite the giant, and fell 
asleep immediately. 

The prince could not basely go back to bed and 
leave in captivity the lovely being whom he had 
seen and admired for one instant, and was deter¬ 
mined to serve all his life. So, instead of returning 
to the town, he stole softly around the outside of 


A Love Story. 


123 


the tent, until he was opposite the apartment of 
the princess. He regretted greatly that he possessed 
no guitar—I would say, lute—and that he could not 
have played upon such a thing if he had it; for 
this was the proper occasion for a serenade, at the 
sound of which the princess would come forth, relate 
her woes, and resolve to fly—fly with her devoted 
champion. But while he wondered whether a little 
judicious sighing, or perhaps singing, might not awake 
the lady without disturbing her guardians, behold 
the curtain of the tent was raised, and the princess 
stood before him. She now wore a crown, in which 
gleamed gems of the most extraordinary size; her 
neck was hung with heavy chains of gold, and 
the amount of gorgeous silk, velvet, and ermine 
displayed in her dress was quite astonishing. 
Smiling in a frank and fearless way—and oh ! 
what white teeth she showed when she smiled—she 
came out into the moonlight, and held out her 
hand. 

“ Are you going to stay,” said she, “ or will you 
steal and run away, like the last one ? I am glad 
he is gone. I did not like him ; he used to pinch 
me when we played together, and step on my toes 
in the Spanish dance. When he ran away, he 
wanted me to go too, but I would not; and when 
they found he was gone, they went after him and 
caught him and put him in prison. Yesterday the 


Glorioso :■ 


124 

old man went over and got the things he stole, and 
brought them back in a bag. While he was gone, 
the giant—he is very good to me, though he hurts 
me sometimes—brought us here in the wagon. I 
had a great mind to run away myself, before the 
old man got back, but I was afraid, and Bridget 
said no.” 

“ Who is Bridget ? ” said Glorioso. “ Oh ! she is 
the giant’s wife. Before they came, I had a hard 
life. The old man used to keep bears and monkeys, 
and I had to go into the dens. But Bridget says, 
when the time comes, she will help me to get away 
and find my parents.” 

“ Fair princess,” said Glorioso, recalling as much 
as he could of the manner in which the chivalrous 
young princes generally addressed their ladies, “ who 
are thy parents, and where do they dwell ? And 
by what name may I call thee ? ” 

“You needn’t talk to me now in that wa^,” said 
she, laughing quite like a little girl, “ we shall have 
plenty of that, and you will get tired of it, as I am. 
They call me the Princess Favoletta in public, but 
you can call me Pet, if you like. That was my 
name at home, far away in another country, across 
the sea. I was stolen and carried away, and brought 
across the ocean, and sold to this old man. He is 
not very cruel now, though he makes me work hard 
and travel about all the time. I have had to sit 


A Love Story . 125 

up all this evening until now, to make and fit my 
new dress for to-morrow.” 

“How splendid it is!” cried Glorioso; “what 
magnificent jewels ! ” 

“ Pshaw! ” said Pet, “ don’t be foolish. They are 
nothing but trash.” 

Glorioso thought nobody but a princess could 

speak in that way of diamonds and pearls. “ Prin¬ 
cess—I mean Pet,” said he, “ let us both run away 
from this odious place to-night. I know the 

country where your royal father resides. We will 
fly thither; only we must have a fairy to keep 

back the magician from pursuing us.” 

“ Is it a fairy ye want ? ” said a rough but 

kindly voice from the tent ; “ sure I’ll be yer fairy, 
if that’s all, an’ I’ll kape the ould man back till well 
into the mornin’. Av ye make good time, ye’ll 

get out of the way intirely. Is it yerself, young 

man, as comes from my little gurl’s father? Faith, 

yer a small body for a big business; but ye’ve 

managed it purty well so far, an’ that’s the truth.” 

“ That’s Bridget,” says the princess. “ O Bridget! 
I am going home to my father! ” And with that 
she cried a little, just for joy, and looked more 
lovely than ever. 

Thomas—bless me! I mean Glorioso—could not 
contain himself for pride and pleasure. The fairy 
was disguised as an ugly old woman in a broad 


126 


Gloi ioso : 


frilled cap, but of course she could assume her own 
beautiful form whenever she chose; and at any 
rate, she looked beautiful already to him, because 
she was so friendly, and promised her help in the 
rescue of the Princess Favoletta. He grew more 
and more confident, and protested that he was the 
only person destined to convey her home. He was 
even anxious to start at once, but the fairy Bridget 
told them they must leave the handsome clothes 
behind. “ Av ye carry off wan o’ thim thrifles,” 
said she, evidently trying to speak like a common 
person—though it was of no use, since he had 
recognized her at once, by virtue of his perfect 
acquaintance with fairy matters—“ av ye carry off 
wan o’ thim thrifles, sure he’ll follow yez to the 
ind o’ the warruld.” 

So Glorioso went softly back and doffed his 
fine feathers. Then he returned and waited impa¬ 
tiently outside until the princess had changed her 
clothes likewise. When she reappeared in a plain 
brown dress, with a little hood of the same color 
over her bright hair, she seemed, if possible, more 
charming than ever. At the last moment the fairy 
almost changed her mind about letting them go. 
She began to cry like any mortal, and sobbed that 
she never should hear of her darling again. “ You can 
come to us at any time, you know,” said Glorioso. 
“ Indade I could,” said she, “ anywhere on this side 



























































TOM AND PET IN THE MOONLIGHT. 

“ Ih i^l ct . t if was so ,. c i“ r ™ ed t wi i h the face of the princess that he wanted to 
keep it in the moonlight all the time , and did not pay proper attention to other 
matters. —Page 127. 

















A Love Story . 


127 


of the say, but not in thim ould counthries, barrin’ 
it’s Ireland.” Then Glorioso recalled that every 
fairy has her sphere, and possesses no power or 
knowledge outside of it. So on the spur of the 
moment, he whispered to her the name and address 
of his father, adding: “ He is my—that is, he is a 
very worthy man, who manages some affairs for me, 
and I will let him know what happens to us. So 
you need only go there to find out how the prin¬ 
cess is getting along.” Thereupon they bade her 
good-by, and hurried away, the giant and the ma¬ 
gician snoring a fine duet as they passed. 

They took a road that led away to one side of 
the town, as they wished to avoid meeting anybody; 
and when this led them into another road, Glorioso, 
who did not wish to appear ignorant, boldly strode 
off toward the quarter where the moon was shining, 
which happened to be the west. The fact is, he 
was so charmed with the face of the princess that 
he wanted to keep it in the moonlight all the 
time, and did not pay proper attention to other 
matters. 

This is frequently the effect of the moon under such 
circumstances. It requires great strength of mind to 
escort a lovely princess home by moonlight, and not 
take the longest road. Glorioso, however, thought, 
“ Presently we shall come to a lake, and on it 
there will be a boat, which will begin to go of 


128 


Glorioso : 


itself as soon as we get into it.” But they came 
instead, after walking several hours, into a deep, 
dark wood. However, this also was provided for in 
the story-books. “ Never fear, dear princess,” spoke 
the brave Glorioso, “ in the midst of this wood 
dwells a venerable hermit with a long gray beard, 
who will hospitably entertain us, and direct us to 
his brother, a hundred years older than he, who 
will tell us all we desire to know.” 

You may think this was too confident; but you 
must bear in mind that up to this time everything 
had turned out, from the beginning, just as he ex¬ 
pected. But now his faith was sorely tried; for 
the princess grew very tired, and the way seemed 
as if it would never end. At last, when they de¬ 
spaired of finding the hut of the venerable hermit, 
they saw the end of the wood close before them 
and the open country beyond. The moon had set, 
and it was now quite dark; so the princess said 
she would sit down under the last trees on the 
brow of the hill, to rest until morning. 

Glorioso was glad to consent, for he too was 
very weary. “ Fair lady,” said he, “ recline upon 
these gathered leaves, until the dawn, which is not 
far off, shall appear. It is indeed a sorry couch for 
one of your rank.” 

Now the fair lady, being so tired, was a little 
cross, and snapped him up sharply. “ I wish you 


A Love Story . 


129 


would stop that nonsense. Now that we have got 
away from it, I want to forget all about it; but 
you keep pretending and pretending, just to tease 
me. One would suppose you thought me a real 
princess, instead of a make-believe.” 

Glorioso could scarcely believe his ears. “ Are 
you not, then—?” he began. 

“ Of course not,” said she; “ who ever said I 

was ? I am nothing, but a wretched girl, stolen 
away from her father—” 

“ The king,” put in Glorioso. 

“ The fiddle-dedee ! ” said Pet pettishly ; and then 
suddenly turning towards him she cried out: “I don’t 
believe you know my father at all, and you cannot 
take me home. Why did I leave Bridget ? Oh! dear, 
oh! dear.” And she sobbed as if her heart would break. 

For a few moments nothing was said. Nothing 
can be said to a woman while she is crying. But 
at last she wiped away her tears, and proceeded 
more calmly. “ You will take me back in the 
morning, won’t you ? I know you are kind and 
good, and meant to help me, though I cannot un¬ 
derstand it at all. But you will take me back—” 

“To the magician?” asked Glorioso. 

“ To the travelling juggler, who exhibits the Irish 
giant and the Spanish Princess Favoletta—fiddle¬ 
stick,” said she; “why can’t you stop talking so? 
Don’t you see it makes me cry?” 


130 


Glorioso : 


Glorioso—no, this time I shall say Thomas—made 
no answer for several minutes. If I should write 
down all that he thought during that time, it would 
fill a book. The substance of it, however, was neatly 
expressed in his first words: “ I believe I am the 
biggest fool that ever lived. I want to go home.” 

“ Heigh-ho! so do I,” exclaimed Pet; “ but where 
is my home? Have you been stolen away, too?” 
And with that, like a dear, sweet, good maiden as 
she was, she began to pity him so much that she 
forgot her own sorrows. “ What is your name, and 
where do you live? How selfish I was not to ask 
before ! ” 

“ My name is G1—Thomas,” said he ; “ don’t let’s 
talk about that. Look here, Pet, you know a great 
deal more than I do; won’t you tell me some¬ 
thing ? Are there not real magicians and giants and 
fairies? ” 

“I never saw any,” replied she; “they are all in 
the story-books, I suppose.” 

“But there are kingdoms and princesses?” con¬ 
tinued Thomas. 

“ Oh ! yes; there were princesses in my country; 
I saw one pf them one day; she looked just like 
any other girl, only she looked quite sad. People 
said she was going to marry an old duke, and didn’t 
like him.” 

“ Don’t the princesses marry the young champions 


A Love Story. 


131 

that save their lives or rescue them from giants ? ” 
asked Thomas, unwilling even yet to give up his 
dream. 

“ No,” said the maiden, with a little shy laugh, 
“ not the real princesses.” (Fie, Pet ! only ten years 
old, and a coquette already!) 

Then Thomas cried out boldly: “I am glad you 
are not a princess! ” And when she blushed, and 
asked him what he meant by that, he blushed also, 
and refused to tell. 

By this time it was quite day; and when they 
lifted their eyes, behold a beautiful wide landscape 
lay beneath them, beautiful in the first rays of the 
sun. There were patches of forest, and smooth green 
or brown fields, and white houses embowered in 
trees, scattered here and there, or clustered in quiet 
villages, with gleaming church-spires. The maiden 
clapped her hands. “ Oh ! how lovely ! ” said she ; “ if 
I cannot find my own home, I should like to live 
here ! ” 

At these words Thomas sprang to his feet. 
“ Why, this is Chipmonk Hill,” he shouted, “and 
down there is my father’s house! We have been 
coming back all the time. Come, come; I know you 
will be welcome! ” And without waiting for any 
further explanations, he caught her hand and hurried 
her down the hill. 

The house where Thomas lived was a handsome 


132 


Glorioso : 


country residence, with a wide veranda. As the two 
wanderers approached, they saw that, notwithstanding 
the early hour, the door was open, and a consider¬ 
able group of people were gathered around it. As 
they drew nearer, they were greeted with shouts of, 
“ Here they are! ” and a tall, handsome gentleman 
rushed down the walk towards them. When little 
Pet saw him, she flew to meet him, crying and 
laughing, and sprang into his arms. 

To explain all this I must go back a little in 
my story. It seems that Pet’s father had tracked 
her step by step from England, where he resided, 
to this country, and had found out that she was in 
the possession of the juggler and his travelling 
show. After visiting several places where they had 
exhibited, and arriving, each time, after his little 
bird had flown, he finally caught the show at the 
town where Thomas had joined it; and about an 
hour after the two fugitives had escaped he arrived 
in hot haste at the Temple of Sorcery, and roused 
the inmates. Then there was a storm, I promise you! 
The juggler was angry and frightened, the giant was 
stupid and frightened, the poor father was distracted, 
and Bridget 1 was the victim of it all. But she be¬ 
haved nobly. She wouldn’t tell a thing until she 
found that this was really the father of Pet. Then 
she said •- “ Sure, the child was gone off with the 
foine b’y ye sent for her! ” That made matters a 


A Love Story . 


133 


great deal worse; but the father cared for nothing 
but to find his child, and cut short all explanations, 
promising to overlook everything, and pay a reward 
besides, if they would help him in the pursuit. 
Then Bridget bethought herself of the address which 
Thomas had given her; and away the whole party 
went to Thomas’s father’s house. There they found 
the lawyer and all his family, up and dressed and 
filled with anxiety. Thomas had been missing since 
morning, and the whole neighborhood had been 
searched for him in vain. The two parents mingled 
their woes in sympathy, and were considerably con¬ 
soled ; for it was now evident that the children 
could come to no great harm, and that it would 
not be a very difficult matter to find them. But 
nothing could be done until daylight, which was 
now close at hand. So the intervening time was 
spent in hearing the story of the juggler, which I 
shall not introduce here, but from which it appeared 
that he had nothing to do with the stealing of the 
little girl, two years before, and that he had made 
some endeavors to find her parents, but without 
success. He hoped nothing further would be said 
about the matter, and offered a fair share of the 
profits of his tour to pay for the services of the 
Princess Favoletta. But Pet’s father laughed at 
that, and put him quite at his ease, promising to 
give him also a considerable sum of money, to 


134 


Glorioso: 


be divided equally between himself, the giant, and 
Bridget. 

Just after sunrise the whole party went out up¬ 
on the veranda to look up and down the road, and 
then it was that they saw Pet and her champion 
hastening across the fields. Everybody was over¬ 
joyed at this happy termination of an anxious and 
miserable night. Tom’s folly was not alluded to. 
In fact, no one understood it but the princess, and 
she had promised not to tell; and all curiosity on 
the subject was swallowed up in the joy of meeting. 

I need not describe the scene further. Pet and 
her father remained for some weeks as guests at the 
lawyer’s mansion. The two parents became very in¬ 
timate friends, and their children liked one another 
better and better every day. Tom confided to Pet 
his determination to study hard and prepare himself 
for some great deeds. “ If there are no more sor¬ 
cerers and giants,” said he, “ there must be other 
ways of being brave and generous, and rescuing the 
innocent. My father says that lawyers are the 
champions of right nowadays, and I mean to be a 
lawyer.” 

Not long after this conversation the guests took 
their departure. Just before they went away, Pet 
went lip to Tom, who was standing sadly apart, 
and held out her hand, saying, “ Good-by, Tom. I 
hope you’ll find a princess some day.” This was 


A Love Story . 


135 


intended for gentle satire, but Pet couldn’t keep it 
up in that tone, for she burst out, “ Dear Tom^ I 
will never forget you as long as I live.” Tom an¬ 
swered nothing. His heart was in his throat, chok¬ 
ing him. 

“Well, haven’t you anything to say?’’ asked she, 
vexed, and patting the garden walk with her little 
foot. 

“ I can’t,” gasped Tom. 

“ You needn’t say anything, then,” replied Pet 
with an odd emphasis, at which Tom looked up 
suddenly, and—well, there is no use in disguising it, 
for the two fathers saw it from the front door— 
Tom kissed her, and she threw her arms about his 
neck for an instant, and then ran away as fast as 
she could. At which the two, fathers nodded and 
smiled, and appeared to understand one another per¬ 
fectly. 

All this happened when Tom was twelve and 
Pet ten. You see, girls grow faster than boys at 
first, and Pet was quite a little woman in her ways 
and moods, while Tom had not got out of jackets, 
and was merely a good-natured, clumsy, bewildered 
boy. He could have talked gorgeously as Prince 
Glorioso, but he hadn’t a word to say in his proper 
character of Thomas to a pretty girl. 

But ten years make a great difference. At 

twenty-two Tom was a handsome fellow with a fine 


136 


Glorioso : 


mustache, who had been through college, and studied 
at a German university, and was now travelling in 
England, before returning to this country to go into 
partnership with his father. And one day he was 
standing in a grand conservatory among the japoni- 
cas and white lilies with a charming young lady of 
twenty—in fact, of course it was Pet. He had 
been a guest of Pet’s father for several weeks, and 
he was just going away. The young lady had just 
made some small remark, to which he replied, “ Yes, 
Miss Pet.” She broke out, with the most bewitch¬ 
ing imitation of the manner of the little Princess 
Favoletta, years and years before, under the dark 
trees, showing that she hadn’t forgotten a single 
minute of that eventful night: 

“ Why don’t you stop talking such nonsense, and 
call me Pet ? One would think you believed me to 
be a real princess! ” 

Well, now, I really cannot undertake to report 
Tom’s next speech; all I know is, that at the end 
of it Pet stood silent, with her face turned away a 
little, and her eyes cast down. Then the cruel fel¬ 
low actually mimicked her dear, dear, never-forgot¬ 
ten parting speech, using her own words, “ Well, 
haven’t you anything to say? You needn’t say any¬ 
thing; you know! ” 

“ Take back your old kiss,” says Pet, half in fun 
and all in earnest; and here is another blank in 


A Love Story . 


*37 


my story, which skips over five minutes to the final 
remark in the conversation: 

“ And now, Mr. Prince Glorioso Tom, I think 
you had better stay over till the next train, or pos¬ 
sibly a little longer, and talk to my royal father! ” 


Two Old angels. 


I. 


GRANDMOTHER BRIGHT. 

RANDMOTHER BRIGHT was just 
the dearest, queerest old lady that 
ever lived. With her sweet face 
and her silver hair, her gentle but 
lively ways, her love of mirth and 
her quick sympathy, she moved 
about the village parsonage, or sat 
in her arm-chair by the fire, a bless¬ 
ing and a comfort to all who looked 
upon her, down to children’s children. She was 
very old. Hardly anybody was left in the village 
who knew how old she was; and as to herself, she 
had a better reason than most ladies for not telling 
her age, for she hadn’t had any memory for years and 
years. Grandfather Bright had been the pastor of 
the South Church, and now his son Benjamin was 
pastor, and his hair was getting gray, and the little 
Brights were pretty well grown, and young Benja- 

138 










139 


A New England Story. 

min had gone to college—though grandmother would 
still get up once in a while, lay aside her knitting, 
and say, “ I wonder what has become of Benjamin. 
He’s so still; I am sure the child must be in some 
mischief.” And nobody knew, either, whether she 
meant the college Benjamin or the Reverend Benja¬ 
min. She had seen them both in baby-mischief in 
her day, and she mixed up the past and the pre¬ 
sent very comically. Yes, she was very old, and 
her memory was gone, as I said before—only I 
shouldn’t have said that exactly; for I think, in 
truth, she had kept the best part of it. All such 
unnecessary rubbish as we lug about in our memo¬ 
ries—dates and facts and histories—Grandmother 
Bright had laid aside in her quiet, cheerful way. 
She didn’t want them any longer, and she wouldn’t 
be bothered with them. But the love and joy and 
faith of a long life she had kept, saving the best 
part of all that had ever happened to her. Her hus¬ 
band and her children and their children, were all 
in her heart, with many other friends. Some were 
in heaven and some on earth—she did not know 
the difference, or perhaps she had found out how 
small the difference is. Old, did I say? Grand¬ 
mother Bright was growing immortally young. 

She wasn’t a bit solemn or gloomy, but as merry 
as a maiden. She delighted in innocent little prac¬ 
tical jokes. She would slip into the Reverend Ben- 


140 Two Old Angels : 

jamin’s bedroom and double the sheets in such a 
way that, when he had put out the light, he would 
find it impossible to get his feet down into the 
bed; and the arrangement would be so intricate 
that he couldn’t straighten it (men never are very 
skilful in such matters!) without getting up and 
hunting in the dark for the matches she had hid¬ 
den, to strike a light and make the bed all over 
again. And in the middle of it all, she would rap 
on the partition and call out: “ What’s the matter, 
Benjamin, that you can’t sleep? Hadn’t I better 
bring you some catnip tea?” 

Everybody liked her little tricks, because she en¬ 
joyed them so much herself, and there was no 
malice about them. Even Uncle James, though he 
pretended to get very angry, used to laugh at last. 
He was her brother, much younger than she, though 
now very old too. But age had affected him dif¬ 
ferently. He had kept his memory pretty well, but 
his eyesight was poor and so was his hearing; and 
he was very crusty in his temper, though benevo¬ 
lent enough at heart. But I notice that people 
who practise impatience all their lives don’t grow 
gentle all of a sudden in old age. Moreover, Un¬ 
cle James could not understand how anybody could 
fail to remember things; and, though Grandmother’s 
eyes were bright and her ears sharp and her foot¬ 
steps light, he thought she was broken down entirely, 


A New England Story . 141 

and felt quite superior to her, particularly when 
she kept asking the same questions over and over 
again, and forgetting the answers before next morn¬ 
ing. He had been married three times, and his 
third wife had died ten years before. 

Grandmother would begin a conversation with 
him in this fashion, while he pored over the news¬ 
paper : 

“Jimmy, let me brush your hair. What nice 
hair you have! But it’s turning gray.” 

Uncle Janies (who liked to have his hair brushed): 
“ Well, well; I should think I knew that.” 

Grandmother (after gently brushing for a few min¬ 
utes): “Jimmy, why don’t you get married?’ 

Uncle James (sharply): “I did.” 

Grandmother: “Why, who was she, James? 
What was her name ? ” 

Uncle James: “ Maria.” 

Grandmother (timidly): “James, is she livin’?” 

Uncle James (who has been through this cate¬ 
chism before, and only tolerates it because he likes 
to have his hair brushed): “No; died o’ consump¬ 
tion, years and years ago.” 

Grandmother: “Well, James, don’t you think it 
would be well to marry again?” 

Uncle James : “ Did ! ” 

Grandmother: “ Why, what was her name, 

James?” 


142 


Two Old Angels : 


Uncle James (throwing down his paper): “ What’s 
the use of telling you anything, Betsy! I’ve told 
you the whole thing a hundred times. Amanda! ” 

Grandmother (brushing away till he takes up his 
paper again): “Well, just tell me one thing more; 
James, is she dead ? ” 

And then it was, “What did she die of?” and 
so on to the third wife, Louisa—Uncle James get¬ 
ting more and more vexed and surly, until at last 
he shouts out the cause of her death: “ Broke her 
neck! and I never married again and I don’t mean 
to, and now I hope you’re satisfied ! ” whereupon 
Grandmother gives a little shriek of surprise, and 
retreats to her corner, where she stays until Uncle 
James has fairly got at his paper again, when she 
quietly slips forward and lays a couple of lozenges 
on the table within his reach. He is very fond of 
lozenges; and by-and-by, seeing these over the sil¬ 
ver rim of his spectacles, he accidentally, as it were, 
lets his hand stray in that direction, and presently 
one of them is popped into his mouth. Now, oil 
one occasion these were pepper lozenges, the inside 
of. which is like burning fire, though there is a thin 
layer of pure sugar on the outside, which tastes very- 
well until the pepper begins to come through. So 
you may well believe that after a few moments of 
silent satisfaction, Uncle James rose up and howled, 
while Grandmother Bright placidly enquired ; “ What’s 


A New England Story . 


H3 


the matter, James ? Have you swallowed a hor¬ 
net?'’ At this, out went Uncle James and banged 
the door after him, while Grandmother Brfght 
laughed heartily in her arm-chair, and said to her¬ 
self: “Do him good—my lozenges are just the 
thing for a hot temper.” And sure enough, in half 
an hour back comes Uncle James, and says: 

“ Look here, Betsey, I was just going by the 
store, and I thought I’d get you some o’ that yarn. 
You mustn’t mind my ways, you know—and—and— 
look here—if you won’t give me any more thunder- 
and-lightning candy, I’ll give you no hard words! ” 


II. 


AUNT PICKERELL. 

Aunt Pickerell was Uncle James’s second wife’s 
first husband’s sister. You see Uncle James’s sec¬ 
ond wife was a widow when he married her, and 
her first husband was a Pickerell, and old Miss 
Pickerell had always lived with them. So when Un¬ 
cle James took Mrs. Pickerell, Miss Pickerell “ con¬ 
tinued right along,” and in that way she had con¬ 
tinued ever since, through the administration of the 
third wife also; and now she was an ancient fixture 
in the parsonage, as much as the tall clock in the 
kitchen, or the big Bible on the lamp-stand in the 


M4 


Two Old Angels: 


sitting-room. She wasn’t a bit like Grandmother 
Bright, except that she too had lost her memory; 
but then a good part of her wits had gone with it, 
and all of her cheerfulness, if she ever had any. 
She was always coming into the conversation with 
texts of Scripture—the words of which she retained, 
with very little notion of their meaning. But, as 
people who open the Bible at random sometimes 
light upon an extremely appropriate verse, so Aunt 
Pickerell’s sudden quotations were now and then aw¬ 
fully adapted to the occasion, so as to produce a 
general consternation or amusement, according to cir¬ 
cumstances. 

Thus when little Mary Ann, who was a preco¬ 
cious and universally admired baby, was heard scream¬ 
ing up-stairs, while the family were gathered for 
prayers in the sitting-room, Aunt Pickereil interrupt¬ 
ed the reading of a chapter from Nehemiah with a 
verse out of Proverbs: “ Doth not wisdom cry ? and 
understanding put forth her voice?” 

And once when a young minister from the Cor¬ 
ners was exchanging with Mr. Bright, and staying 
at the parsonage over Sabbath, she broke in upon 
a very learned and edifying discourse of his, ad¬ 
dressed to Uncle James, with this scrap of Second 
Kings: “ Speak to thy servant in the Syrian lan¬ 
guage ; for we understand it.” The young minister 
stared a little, laughed faintly, and began to talk 


A New England Story . 145 

about something else. But he didn’t get away from 
Aunt Pickerell so easily; for a few minutes after, 
when he mentioned that he had received a call to 
one of the leading congregations in Boston, she 
spoke out solemnly from her corner, “ I called not, 
my son ; lie down again ! ” 

People could never get quite accustomed to Aunt 
Pickerell and her texts. Everybody was rather afraid 
of her, except Grandmother Bright. It was beauti¬ 
ful to see the friendship of these two old ladies. 
Each one seemed to lay aside part of her charac¬ 
ter out of deference to the other. Grandmother 
Bright never teased Aunt Pickerell, and Aunt Pick¬ 
erell never reproached Grandmother Bright. They 
called one another by their first names, Elizabeth 
and Mehitable; and they would sit together by the 
hour, gossiping away in the most amicable and con¬ 
tented manner. They never had any trouble about 
subjects, for they could go over the same ground 
day after day, without being aware that they had 
discussed it already. But when one of them re¬ 
called from the days of youth any particular topic, 
the other, out of pure sympathy, immediately seemed 
to recollect all about it. So they crooned away on 
opposite sides of the sitting-room fireplace, nodding 
amiably to one another—Grandmother Bright less 
lively and mischievous than usual, and Aunt Pick¬ 
erell less solemn and severe, yet occasionally ventur- 


146 


Two Old Angels: 


ing, the one on a text and the other on a joke. 
Parson Bright once called them the two old angels, 
and when objection was made, with reference to 
Aunt Pickerell’s somewhat forbidding ways, he said, 
with earnestness, “ She has had a sad, monotonous, 
dependent, lonesome life; and experience has left 
her scarred and not beautiful. But she was a good 
woman, and tried to do her duty—and if we can¬ 
not see the angel in her, let us be thankful there 
is Somebody who can.” And Grandmother Bright 
seemed to entertain the same opinion; for once, 
when Uncle James blurted out one of his rough 
opinions about Aunt Pickerell’s long face and stern 
sayings, she said archly, “ Now, James, don’t be too 
hard on Mehitable. She never had a family of her 
own to take care of, nor a husband to take care of 
her. She never was married. People that are mar¬ 
ried grow good-natured. Jimmy, why don’t you 
get married?” 

To which Uncle James replied hastily, “ There, 
don’t begin that catechism again. I’ve told you all 
about that a hundred times. Very likely it is hard 
on Mehitable, though. She always was a good, 
faithful woman, I’ll say that for her. When Amanda 
had the dropsy, she nursed her like her own mother. 
Well, well, let her preach, it’s all the comfort she’s 
got, now her wits have gone. But I’d rather have 
your mischief, Betsey, than her goodness.” 


A New England Story . 


147 


And Grandmother Bright, falling back neatly on 
her loss of memory, finished the conversation with, 
“You are so good-natured, Jimmy; I think you 
must have been getting married. Who is she, 
James ?” 


THE WILD IDEA. 

One Christmas afternoon, it so happened that all 
the folks were out of the house, and the two old 
ladies were alone, chatting away most comfortably, 
and mixing up past and present in .an amazing 
manner, as they exchanged reminiscences and opin¬ 
ions. Suddenly Grandmother Bright saw Dr. Hop¬ 
kins and his wife drive by, in the old shay which 
had carried the Doctor with his bottles and plasters 
for twenty years. He and his wife were on the 
shady side of fifty, and their grown-up son was a 
lawyer in Hartford ; but to Grandmother Bright years 
were as nothing. “ Mehitable,” said she, “ there’s 
that young Hopkins a-riding out again with Lucy 
Mather. It seems to me, if I’ve seen ’em once, 
I’ve seen ’em a dozen times. It’s high time he 
spoke out. Folks have begun to talk already.” 

Aunt Pickerell nodded gravely, and muttered, 
“ How long shall the wicked flourish ? ” while Grand- 


148 


Two Old Angels: 


mother Bright, who was accustomed to these Scrip¬ 
tural interruptions, went on, “ Poor thing, she looks 
pale and thin. She’s gettin’ old before her time. 
Tired of waiting.” To this Aunt Pickerell assented 
profoundly, and remarked that the days of Methu- 
saleh were nine hundred and sixty-nine years. 

“ Her mother was an Endicott,” continued Grand¬ 
mother Bright, “ and I recollect Lucy when she was 
a baby. It seems no longer ago than yesterday, and 
here she is, a-riding around with Luther Hopkins! 
You recollect the Endicotts, Mehitable?” 

Aunt Pickerell replied that she did, and that all 
flesh was grass, and Grandmother Bright went on. 
“ Lucy’s mother was a handy little body, but she 
wasn’t to compare with her sister Isabella, she that 
married Oliver Newman. I stood up along with 
her at her wedding, and I’ve got a picture of her 
in my breastpin, that was painted in Boston—just 
as she looked in her wedding clothes, the prettiest 
picture that ever was. I declare, I believe I owe 
Isabella Newman a call. I haven’t had a chance 
to call on her this I don’t know how long, what 
with the darning and mending and knitting. Me¬ 
hitable, let’s hitch up the colt, and go and take 
tea with her.” 

This astounding proposition aroused no surprise 
in Aunt Pickerell’s mind, though such a thing as 
either of them leaving the house alone had not been 


A New England Story . 


149 


dreamed of for years. But she was accustomed to 
respect Betsey’s energy and superior intelligence; and 
on this occasion she produced an unusually apt quo¬ 
tation, declaring, “ Whither thou goest I will go! v 
And thereupon the two old angels began to make 
active preparations for visiting Isabella Newman, who 
had been dead and buried a dozen years. After 
getting on their hoods, shawls, and galoshes, they 
went out to the barn to find the colt. What Grand¬ 
mother Bright called the colt, everybody else had long 
called the old mare. She had been a colt a gen¬ 
eration before, but now she was toothless and stiff, 
and had been retired from active service. All sum¬ 
mer she went loose in the pasture, pretending to 
prance occasionally in a feeble way, and in winter 
she was honorably installed in a warm corner of 
the stable, and fed on the choicest mash. She whin¬ 
nied with joy at seeing Grandmother Bright, who 
patted her fearlessly, saying, “Whey, Pony!”—and 
no doubt the mare said to herself, “ Here comes my 
dear young lady.” It was wonderful how easily she 
allowed herself to be harnessed, putting out her 
nose for the bit, and taking care not to whisk her 
tail. And when the two old ladies had lifted up 
the “ fills ” of the dusty and venerable shay, what 
should the mare do but back right in, as dexter¬ 
ously as ever a Duchess at a Queen’s reception 
backed out. Then they climbed up into the vehi- 


Two Old Angels: 


150 

cle, and when Grandmother Bright shook the reins 
as if she were spreading a table-cloth, and said 
“ G’dapp,” the old mare looked around, saw that 
everything was right, and ambled rheumatically 
through the barn-door and the open gate, out into 
the high-road. There was a little snow on the 
ground, and Grandmother Bright, tranquilly trium¬ 
phant so far, said she was half o’ mind to go back 
and take the cutter; but Aunt Pickerell made a 
solemn announcement about “ a wheel in the middle 
of a wheel,” which was probably intended as a pro¬ 
test ; and so she gave up the notion, remarking that 
after all it was perhaps better, as the colt was apt 
to be skittish with runners. 


IV. 

THE NEWMANS. 

Yes, Isabella Newman, born Endicott, had died 
a dozen years before—and died of a broken heart. 
For Oliver Newman, though a reasonably affection¬ 
ate husband, had proved a stern father, and when 
he drove Grace away, the mother faded and pined 
to death. Grace was their only child, and through 
twenty years the sunshine and music of their house. 
It was when the young school-teacher, boarding one 
winter with them, fell in love with Grace, and asked 




A New England Story. 151 

her to marry him, that Oliver’s pride and obstinacy 
showed themselves. He forbade the young man* to 
appear in his family; he got the school given to 
another teacher; he commanded his daughter to put 
all such nonsense out of her head; in short, he be¬ 
haved in such a way that even Isabella took sides 
with the young people. And after a year had 
passed, and nobody had changed an atom in deter¬ 
mination, the school-teacher returned to the village, 
and married Grace in spite of her father, who did 
not try, indeed, to prevent it, but declared that 
neither of them should set foot under his roof again. 
Isabella went to church to see them married, and 
then, as the folks said, “just went into a decline.” 
In a few months Oliver Newman’s house was deso¬ 
late. Then he locked up his memory, and became 
the hardest and coldest of men. All alone in his 
great house he lived, growing rich almost without 
effort, because he spent little money and saved much. 
Many letters from his daughter he returned un¬ 
opened, until, at last, no more came. It was not so 
easy to prevent thoughts of her from coming; but 
he smothered them, or turned them into bitterness 
by making himself believe that he, and he only, had 
been outraged, defied, and deserted. This Christmas 
afternoon, as he sat before his fire, looking into the 
blaze, his conscience seemed to be unusually aroused. 
He began to feel that revenge had brought remorse. 


152 


Two Old Angels; 


Not that he remembered it was Christmas. He 
only felt how lonesome he was! Even the house¬ 
keeper had gone away to spend New Year’s with 
her relatives in Vermont; and he, in his feeble old 
age, had neither relative nor friend in the world. 
He had estranged them all. So he sat before the 
fire, himself afire with conflicting emotions. Evil and 
good influences were struggling for his soul, but it 
was an unequal fight, for the soul had been too 
long given over utterly to selfishness and hate. If 
only some blessed angel could enter, to throw vic¬ 
torious overweight upon the celestial side! 

Or if he could even have known what was at 
that moment taking place not far away. Alas! poor 
Grace had lost her husband, after a dozen blessed 
years of mingled joy and sorrow. Poverty they had 
always borne, yet never absolute need. But when 
her stay was gone, there was nothing left for her 
and her only remaining child—a daughter, and named 
Grace, like herself. Weak and almost dying, she 
had managed to return with her child to the village 
where she was born. She arrived the day before 
Christmas, and fortunately found shelter with a friend 
of her youth. But the story she learned of her 
father’s character and manner filled her with dismay. 
She began to fear he would visit his hatred upon 
her innocent child; and the agitation which this 
thought caused her was too much for her strength. 


A New England Story. 153 

Before morning, it was evident that she could not 
live. She had burst a blood-vessel, the doctor said, 
and was too feeble to rally from the shock. And 
at noon, with little Grace’s head leaning against her 
pillow, and her arms clasped around the child’s waist, 
she died, and was at peace. Her last injunction to 
her daughter was to find Mrs. Betsey Bright, to ask 
her if she remembered Isabella Newton, and to tell 
her that Isabella’s daughter Grace had sent her 
Grace to her mother’s dearest friend. 

Then she died, and little Grace, a child of twelve 
years, was left in the world alone. People came 
and went, busying themselves with the care of the 
dead, while she sat unheeding in the corner of the 
room. But at last she was roused by hearing her 
own name in the conversation., “ Nice child,” said 
one of the women; “just the very image of her 
mother at her age. S’pose, now, her grandfather 
should take her up and do for her; she’d be a 
mighty comfort to him. If he could only see her 
now ! ” 

“ He! ” replied another woman ; “ he’d like no¬ 
thin’ better than the chance to put that child in the 
poor-house. I tell you, Oliver Newman han’t had 
a feelin’ since his wife died, except to hate that 
school-teacher, and the wedding, and all that come 
on’t. Not that he ever exactly hated this poor dear 
lamb,” she added, looking tenderly upon the face of 


154 


Two Old Angels: 


the dead; “ he never mentioned her name, as I’ve 
heard tell, but I guess no man ever actooally hated 
her. But he han’t no call to love this child.” 

“ Poor thing,” said the first speaker. “ I don’t 
see but she’ll have to go to the poor-house, ’tenny 
rate, for a year or two, till she’s big enough to be 
bound out, and make herself useful.” 

Little Grace had listened with horror, and heard 
enough to bring her to a swift decision. She re¬ 
membered well her mother’s dread of the poor- 
house, and she was determined never to go there. 
She would run away, and find Betsey Bright. So 
out of the room she slipped, and down the stairs, 
and away up the high-road. 

v. 

THE ANGELS' VISIT. 

It was Christmas day, but nobody in the village 
paid any attention to that. They celebrated no 
day, in fact, except Thanksgiving, and Fast Day, 
and Election Day, and General, Training, and Pil¬ 
grims’ Day, and the Fourth of July. But the 
Christmas spirit of peace and good-will —that they 
believed in, every day of the year; and Him they 
followed who was born with that spirit into the 
world, on whatever day. It was a pity that they 


1 


A New England Story . 


155 


did not also take the joy and comfort of the Christ¬ 
mas celebration; but the heart’s Christmas is the 
best, after all. To one who sat like Oliver New¬ 
man, wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts, Christ¬ 
mas bells would have been no better than the toll¬ 
ing for a funeral. Very likely he would have won¬ 
dered who was dead, as he wondered now, when 
the bells really did ring a knell. Mechanically he 
counted the strokes. It was a woman, and thirty- 
three years old. Thirty-three years ago his Grace 
was born—and where was she now ? 

Meanwhile, the two old angels were jogging 
along the road, in excellent spirits, on their way to 
take tea with Isabella Newman. Grandmother Bright 
had the faculty, as I have remarked, of retaining, 
without much regard to date, the impression of all 
sweet and pleasant things that had happened to her. 
Sorrow, and particularly death, she seemed not to 
remember at all. That was why her world was full 
of friends and friendly thoughts. She never lost 
any one she loved, and so the years brought her 
increasing, instead of diminishing, treasure. She had 
attended the burial of her early companion a dozen 
years ago, but that had now passed altogether out of 
her mind, while she recalled quite clearly the happy 
wedding, and Isabella’s joy when Grace was born— 
the very Grace whose lifeless form, the form of a 
worn and wasted woman, now lay prepared for the 


Two Old Angels: 


156 

grave in the house of Dr. Hopkins. The old shay 
went by, and its occupants were quite unconscious 
of the scene within. Nor were they noticed by 
anybody. 

But a quarter of a mile beyond they overtook 
a child, trudging bravely over the light snow, bare¬ 
headed and not warmly clothed, but flushed with 
walking. Grandmother Bright pulled up the old 
mare, and called out, “ Mercy on us, child, what are 
you doing out there? You’ll get your feet wet, and 
catch your death of cold. Why, sure as I live, I 
do believe it’s Isabella’s Grace! How you have 
grown, my dear!” 

“ Like a green bay-tree,” said Aunt Pickerell 
graciously ; while her companion continued, “ But 
what upon earth sent you out this way? Little 
girls shouldn’t go away from home without asking 
their mother.” 

Here Grace’s lip quivered, and the tears began 
to fall. “ Mother is—I have lost my mother, and 
I am going to find Betsey Bright,” she faltered. 

“ Bless the child, she’s lost, sq she is,” said 
Grandmother Bright. “ Only to think of it! a little 
thing like that, starting off all alone, to go and 
make a call on me, and getting lost! I never did 
hear the like! Why, dear me, I’m Betsey Bright, 
and I am going out to tea. You just jump right 
into the shay, and we’ll make you comfortable! ” 


A New England Story. 


15 7 


To look at the old lady was to believe her; and 
Grace climbed up, to be tucked into the middle of 
the seat, and covered with shawls. In a few mo¬ 
ments, tired out with her grief, and excitement, and 
exertion, she was fast asleep. Grandmother Bright 
was quite aroused by the unexpected incident, and 
talked incessantly about it. “ Do look at that face, 
Mehitable; just the image of Isabella. Endicott all 
over. What could Isabella have been thinking of, 
to let her go out that way ? She’ll be properly 
frightened to find the girl is lost. I’ll tell you, 
we’ll give her a good lesson. Grace here don’t 
know where we are going to tea. When you catch 
a runaway child, never tell ’em you’re going to take 
’em home. That’s just where they run away from. 
Tell ’em you’re going on a visit, and want them to 
go along.” And Grandmother Bright smiled sweetly 
at her own wisdom. “ But we’ll play a little trick 
on Isabella. We’ll ask her what has become of 
Grace; and then, when she has worried a little, 
we’ll just bring in the child, and have a good laugh 
over it.” 

Aunt Pickerell nodded graciously to everything, 
though her only remark was that the laughter of 
fools was like the crackling of thorns under a pot. 
When they reached the Newmans’ house, they 
climbed out upon the horse-block, and hitched the 
old mare securely; and then it was found necessary 


Two Old Angels : 


158 

to wake Grace, because she was too heavy to carry. 
Grandmother Bright was afraid the child would ob¬ 
ject to enter her home, but Grace, to whom the 
house was perfectly strange, made no opposition 
whatever. 

“Catch me knocking!” whispered Grandmother 
Bright. “ I mean to surprise her.” So she opened 
the front door and passed through the long hall. 
She knew the house as if she had visited there but 
yesterday. At the end of the hall she planted Grace 
on a chair, with orders not to stir, if she wanted 
something nice. The poor child was too experienced 
in sorrow and care already to mind this little bribe, 
but she had no wish to do anything but be guided 
by this dear white-haired lady, who was now her 
only friend. Then Grandmother Bright opened the 
sitting-room door suddenly, and in upon Oliver New¬ 
man walked the two old angels. 

“ Good-afternoon, Oliver ! Well, who would have 
thought to find you at home, right in the middle 
of the day, almost. We thought we’d just come 
round and take tea with ye this afternoon. Miss 
Picker ell, Mr. Newman; Miss Pickerell, Mr. Newman. 
Oliver, it does a body’s heart good to see ye! 
Take off your things, Mehitable! ” 

With that, they both took off their shawls and 
bonnets, smoothed their “ fronts ” before the glass, 
and made themselves very much at home, though 


A New England Story . 


159 


with perfect dignity, according to the rules of po¬ 
liteness. Oliver Newman had risen to receive them, 
in a dazed way, as if he thought they were ghostly 
visitors. He still stood watching them with a hag¬ 
gard glance, while the memories he had kept under 
lock and key for so many years burst through bolts 
and bars, and came surging up in a tumultuous 
crowd. As Grandmother Bright turned from the 
glass to seat herself on the settee, where Aunt Pick- 
erell was already installed, he saw the great old-fash¬ 
ioned brooch upon her white kerchief—the brooch 
containing the picture of Isabella in her bridal dress 
and veil. This vision of his beautiful, innocent, and 
happy love filled his cup to overflowing. He made 
no sign; he stood as if struck into marble; yet 
within him his soul writhed and cried in bitter pain 
and shame. 

But Grandmother Bright, bless her heart! hadn’t 
a bit of an eye for tragedy. She was not con¬ 
scious of anything unusual; and, after she had seated 
herself, spread out her skirts, and folded her hands 
in her lap, she said serenely, “ Now, Oliver, don’t 
stand on our account. You see we’re comfortable. 
I suppose Isabella must have seen us coming up 
the road. You might as well tell her, though, not 
to go making great preparations for us. We came 
to visit her, and just take a cup of tea, that’s all.” 

Oliver fastenod his wide-staring eyes upon her, 


160 Two Old Angels: 

and said slowly, in a strange, hollow voice, as if 
something else spoke through him, “ Isabella is dead 
this many a year ! ” 

At this, Grandmother Bright gave a little cry of 
surprise—not of horror. She never showed any such 
feeling. When she enquired after people, and was 
told that they had left this world, she felt as if 
they had gone unexpectedly to Boston or Hartford, 
and her principal feeling was sympathetic curiosity. 
So now, after a moment of decorous silence, she 
began, “ Oliver, what did she die of? ” 

Here Aunt Pickerell came out sudden and strong. 
Something in the appearance of the unhappy man 
indicated, I suppose, a struggle between remorse and 
hardened denial of sin. At any rate, whatever put 
the fancy into her head, she rose stiffly, pointed her 
forefinger at him, and said with startling emphasis, 
“Where is Abel, thy brother?” 

Oliver shuddered at the Words, and the charge 
they implied; but he never took his eyes from the 
picture of Isabella on the bosom of Grandmother 
Bright. “Yes,” said he, in the same strange, in¬ 
voluntary tone—the voice, as it were, of that buried 
memory which had just found resurrection in him, 
and was speaking through the door of its tomb— 
“ yes, her blood cries out against me. She died of 
my selfishness and hate, and of the loss of Grace, 
which was my fault, too. All mine, all mine! ” 


A New England Story . 161 

Grandmother Bright was perplexed with this re¬ 
ply, until she heard the loss of Grace alluded to. 
Then she saw her way clear, and said briskly, 
“ Your fault, of course it was. Isabella would never 
have let the child go away in that manner. But 
men are thoughtless. I suppose, now, you actually 
sent her with nothing to her back.” 

He bent his head in confession; and she con¬ 
tinued, with a gentle determination to give him a 
good lesson: “ Now she’s lost. An’t ye sorry she’s 
lost, Oliver? Don’t you wish somebody’d find her 
and bring her back?” 

That broke Oliver Newman all to pieces. He 
uttered such a terrible, passionate, wailing cry, and 
burst into such a tempest of sobs and tears, that 
for a moment or two his paralyzed visitors could 
do nothing but gaze upon him with amazement. 
“ The man^ crazy ! ” said Grandmother Bright. '* As 
Nebuchadnezzar,” said Aunt Pickerell. 

Presently he began to call upon his daughter to 
return and to forgive him. “O Grace, Grace! come 
home, come home to me!” Then the door opened, 
and on the threshold stood the child Grace. Flushed 
with recent sleep, bright-eyed, innocent and brave 
and fair of countenance, the image of her mother, 
she stood and looked upon the company. 

Grandmother Bright became more perplexed than 
ever; for Oliver suddenly ceased his outcries, and 


162 


Two Old Angels : 


gazed upon the new-comer with unmistakable awe, 
as if she were a ghost out of the past. There was 
a dawning joy on his expression, too; but over¬ 
shadowed yet with trouble and fear. 

“You called me?” said the sweet voice of the 
child. It was the very voice, too, of his lost dar¬ 
ling. Ah! how his face softened as he gazed upon 
her! How the wrinkles and hard lines seemed to 
disappear! If this was a miracle, and Grace had 
come back to him, a child, to begin again, and give 
him a chance to be a wise and tender parent, then 
he would go back to his younger manhood too. A 
smile of unspeakable love stole over his face. He 
stretched his arms to the child, and she went to 
him with her eyes fixed, at first in serious enquiry, 
and then in perfect trust, upon his face. So Hope 
was clasped in the arms of Memory, while Love, in 
the person of Grandmother Bright, lookeui benignly 
upon both. 

Then Grandmother Bright quickly slipped out of 
the room, and beckoned Aunt Pickerell to follow. 
When they had successfully started on the return 
journey, Grandmother Bright broke silence with the 
remark: “ I don’t understand all about the circum¬ 
stances ; but I could see, plain as day, that that 
child, that Grace, took it in at a glance. Just her 
mother, Isabella. Endicott all over. But one p’int 
was plain enough; we did a better thing than we 


A New England Story . 163 

planned for, when we carried that child home. And 
so I shall tell Isabella next time I see her.” 

“ Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
weary are at rest,” murmured Aunt Pickerell; and 
the shay rolled safely into the parsonage yard. 


The North Sea and the South Sea. 


HE sun goes down early into the sea 
in the Norwegian winter days. First 
his rays leave the smooth bosom of 
the fiord, where the fishing vessels 
lie, waiting for the summer cruise; 
then the shadows creep up the steep 
shores, and the glory dies out on 
the roofs of'the traders’ houses, and 
the great warehouses, and the deep ravines where 
the huts of the fishermen nestle. Still there is a 
gleam of light upon the spire of the little church 
that stands upon a rocky crag, as near as possible 
to heaven ; but presently that too is extinguished, 
and then the sharp, tall pinnacles of the coast keep 
the rosy glow a little longer, until it glides away 
from them to linger, last of all, upon the snowy 
wastes and glaciers of Heligoland. Nobody lives 
away up there but the wild Laplanders and their 
reindeer. How they live few people know ; but 
when the fair weather comes, they appear in the 
villages of Norway, to buy what they need for their 

164 







The North Sea and the South Sea. 165 

wandering life, and then return into their secret hid¬ 
ing-places. When the glory has vanished from the 
topmost glacier, there is nothing left but the memo¬ 
ry of sunset in the sky. After that, it is night in 
Norway, and the streaming Northern Lights take the 
place of the sun. 

One Christmas night, there was a family gathered 
in the great sitting-room of a Norway house, as 
happily and comfortably as though they lived in the 
fairest land and beneath the warmest sky. Outside 
the house was not beautiful. It was built of logs, 
painted red. The roof was made of birchwood, and 
loaded with logs and heavy stones to keep the fierce 
winds from tearing it away. But within, the smooth, 
white floor of Norwegian pine, the ceiling painted 
with blue and white stripes, a rug of reindeer skin 
before the great brick stove, heavy chests bound 
with brass, a tall old clock, a spinning-wheel, long 
rows of bright tin vessels on the shelves that ran 
around the walls, and under these verses of Scrip¬ 
ture skilfully painted—made a picture of peace and 
content. An old man sat in his arm-chair by the 
stove; in another chair was the nurse—she was old 
too; and two or three children were gathered around 
her knee. One boy, little Olaf, sat upon a low stool, 
close beside her, holding her hand, and looking with 
his blue eyes from beneath his yellow hair up into 
her face. The mother was by her wheel, just mak- 


The North Sea 


166 

ing ready to spin; and the children were waiting 
for the old nurse to begin a Christmas story. Just 
as they all looked at one another and whispered, 
“ Now it is going to begin,” there came a knock 
at the door, and the white-haired pastor entered, 
stamping the snow from his feet, and shaking it 
from his fur coat and cap. 

“ God’s peace be with you! ” said he, in the 
simple, hearty Norway fashion; and the children all 
rose and made obeisance to him. Then they quickly 
dropped again into their places, for they longed to 
hear the Christmas story of the nurse. So when 
the pastor’s kindly greetings were over, and he had 
taken his seat by the side of the grandfather, the 
nurse in low tones began her story. As she told 
it, the wind roared outside; but the children did 
not care for that. Neither were they disturbed by 
the whirr of the spinning-wheel; they had only eyes 
and ears for the nurse and her story. The mother 
stopped spinning now and then, to catch a word or 
two; and the two old men looked on and nodded 
to one another, as much as to say: This is Christ¬ 
mas as it should be, full of peace and good-will! 
Little Olaf listened best of all, with such earnest¬ 
ness and sweet seriousness that the pastor, watch¬ 
ing him, said to the old man more than once, 
“ Verily, the blessing of Christmas rests upon the 
child! ” 


and the South Sea . 167 

Now, this was the story of the old nurse by the 
coast of the wild North Sea: 

“ Hundreds of years ago, when the Christ-child 
was born in Bethlehem, the angels were gathered 
from every part of the universe; and they came in 
shining troops, more numerous than any one could 
count, swiftly flying together at the news of the 
Glad Tidings. Only those wicked angels who had 
rebelled against God could not bear to come, but 
hid themselves in the dark corners of the earth, and 
the good angels whose business it is to trim the 
wicks of the stars and keep them burning, could not 
leave their posts of duty; but by the bright light 
of their lamps they saw afar off what took place in 
Bethlehem, and sang together for joy, just as they 
had sung once before when God first lit the morn¬ 
ing stars. And one of them was permitted to 
come, with his star in his hand, and hover over the 
place where the young Child lay. He was a noble 
and beautiful being, so dazzling and pure that the 
other star-angels veiled their faces and hid their 
lamps for a moment as he passed swiftly by. None 
of them knew him. For ages and ages he had 
kept his post on the furthermost edge of the uni¬ 
verse, a sentinel, beyond the path of any other 
spirit. No one saw the splendor of his star, yet he 
kept it burning brightly, with as much care as if it 
were the only light of heaven. God knew that he 


The North Sea 


168 

was faithful, and that was enough for him; and so 
it came to pass that when a herald was needed for 
the coming of the Lord, behold this farthest angel 
flashed through the spaces of the sky, outshining all 
the rest. Even wise men, that had watched the 
heavens all their lives, took notice of him, and fol¬ 
lowed over the desert, night and day, the path of 
his streaming glory, to the Land of Promise; and 
the other angels, guided by his light, gathered above 
the fields of Bethlehem. When that night was 
over, he went straightway back again to keep watch 
beyond the celestial hosts, and to show to wander¬ 
ing, lost stars their pathway home. No human eye 
has seen him since, but one day he shall appear 
again, to light with spotless radiance the second 
coming of the Lord. Yet, strange to say, the 
beams he shed on that one journey have never quite 
died out. They glanced on land and sea; they 
were reflected from icy mountain-tops and fields of 
snow, and from the faces of men, turned upward; 
and from that day to this it has never been so 
dark anywhere as it used to be. The light of the 
Star of Bethlehem is scattered everywhere ; but most 
it loves to rest, at sunrise and at sunset, on the 
bright tips of church-spires. When it is not there, 
it nestles often in the eyes of little children, re¬ 
minding us how tenderly its lustre fell upon the 
young child Jesus. 


and the South Sea. 


169 


“ Now, when the angels came together to rejoice 
that Christ was born into the world, they heard the 
voices from the stars, and they broke out into the 
same song. Oh ! what a choir and what a song was 
that! If only all the people on earth, and all that 
were to be born afterwards, and you and I, had 
been there to hear! But, alas! when the song was 
done, and the multitude of gingers cast their eyes 
upon the fields beneath, there were only a few 
shepherds, tending their flocks, who hardly knew what 
all this celestial music meant. Then the angels 
looked sorrowfully at one another, and said, ‘ Is it 
not strange that we have gathered with so much 
joy from the whole universe to sing “ Peace on 
earth and good-will to men,” and the earth is si¬ 
lent and men are asleep? The very ones to whom 
the precious boon is given care nothing for it! ’ 
So they took counsel together, and finally they 
chose four angels, the angels of the North and the 
South and the East and the West, to carry the glad 
tidings to all men. And then they parted, each to 
his place of duty, while the four messengers ad¬ 
dressed themselves to their work. 

“The two that went to the North and the West 
found many that listened gladly, and as fast as 
men heard their message, they told it to one an¬ 
other, and so lightened the task of the heavenly 
heralds. But he that went to the East made but 


170 


The North Sea 


slow progress; and as for the angel of the South, 
he has been flying wearily for many years over the 
wide sea, and pausing here and there on continents 
and islands, finding almost no one that is willing to 
give him a hearing. 

“And so it happens that in the North and West 
all men have heard that Christ is come ; but in the 
East and South there are millions yet who neither 
know of him nor care to know. But we of the North 
and West are trying to help the angels in their 

holy work, sending out good men and women to 
teach the heathen the way of life; for we are in 
haste for the day when the multitude of the hea¬ 
venly host shall be called again together, and the 
four messengers shall come flying from the North 
and the South and the East and the West, and 

say, ‘ Our task is done.’ And then from afar shall 

we hear the rushing wings and see the flaming torch 
of the sentinel angel—the angel of Bethlehem, com¬ 
ing once more upon his glorious errand. The cho¬ 
rus of praise will be louder than ever then, for it 
will be joined by all mankind—no longer asleep and 
careless, but awake and full of joy, as they wel¬ 
come the second advent of the Lord.” 

This was the story told to a little boy, one 
Christmas day, in the snowy land of Norway, by 
his good old nurse. The Norway people get strange 
fancies into their heads in the long nights of win- 


and the South Sea . 


171 

ter; but I think this fancy had a good deal of 
truth in it—don’t you? At any rate, little Olaf did 
not forget it, and when he grew old enough to 
know the truth from the poetry, he still thought it 
would be a noble work to go to the islands of the 
great South Sea, and spread among the poor heathen 
tribes the knowledge of the dear God who sent his 
Son to live and die for men. And so this Christ¬ 
mas in the North, when the old nurse told him of 
the angels at Bethlehem, was the cause of another 
Christmas in the South, when the old nurse had 
long since been taken to the angels, and the little 
boy himself had become an old, gray-headed man. 
Let us look at the picture of that other Christmas. 


THE SOUTH SEA. 

The blue waves of the Pacific broke into white 
foam along a low coral reef that protected the shores 
of a lovely island. Behind the reef were the fish¬ 
eries, where the natives used to dive for the pearl- 
oysters. Close down to the edge of the land, dip¬ 
ping their roots into the very water, grew the stately 
cocoa-palms, their green plumes nodding and waving 
in the sea-breeze, for the long morning calm was 
just over. As their branches swayed to and fro, 



172 


The North Sea 


they revealed clusters of brown nuts, with innumer¬ 
able white blossoms that were going to be cocoa- 
nuts by-and-by. The rustling of the palms was 
the only sound that broke the stillness. High over¬ 
head their green arches covered the place, letting 
the sunlight through in golden streams and spots, 
while their slender stems upheld the wondrous roof, 
like pillars in some strange, lovely temple. 

Along the shore no human being was to be 
seen. The pearl-fishers had left their occupation, 
and no trace of them remained. The coral gleamed 
through the clear water, fish swam about undisturbed 
by the shadow of a passing keel, and turtles sunned 
themselves unvexed upon the sandy beach. One 
would have thought this island paradise yet undis¬ 
covered by man. But suddenly was heard the sweet 
sound of a bell, ringing afar off in the island. It 
was a church bell; and as its tones died away, a 
chorus of human voices, softened by the distance, 
followed them. It was the sound of Christian wor¬ 
ship, and the sweet melody was a Christmas hymn. 

Not like the peaceful evening in the Norway home 
is this Christmas noon in the South Sea. A very 
different picture, yet not less fair. A great multi¬ 
tude of dusky islanders are gathered in a rustic ca¬ 
thedral. The sides of the building are open, and 
the perfumed breeze floats lightly through. The 
lofty roof is thatched with leaves, and rests upon 


and the South Sea . 173 

shafts of the slender palm. But the strangest thing 
in the church is the middle aisle, through which a 
crystal brook flows musically on its course from the 
green hills to the sea. Three bridges cross it at 
different points, and on either side of it the mats 
are spread, upon which the congregation sit. 

The South Sea islanders love the running water; 
they have no great rivers in their little realms, and 
so they cling with all the more affection to the 
brooks; and even in the sanctuary they are glad to 
mingle their songs of praise with those songs which 
Nature is ever sounding to the glory of God. The 
natives, usually so vivacious and restless, even in 
church, are very silent to-day—for the good Father 
Olaf, he who came many years ago to their savage 
land, and taught them with loving words and pa¬ 
tient example to put away their heathen worship 
and dark superstition, who conquered their hatred 
with gentleness, who showed them many useful arts, 
and made them live, at last, in such peace and 
comfort as they had never known before—above all, 
who has told them many times the story of Christ 
who was born in Bethlehem, and crucified on Cal¬ 
vary, and melted their hard hearts into gratitude to 
the Redeemer of the world—Father Olaf has come 
to meet them this Christmas day for the last time. 
He is lying, supported with cushions, upon a bed, 
placed where he has so often stood in the days of 


174 


The North Sea 


his strength and preached to the people. He can¬ 
not stand now—he is too weak for that; but he 
seems to be invigorated by the familiar sound of 
the brook, and by the earnest, loving looks of the 
people, all bent upon him, and waiting to catch his 
words. With a peaceful smile he has listened to 
the pealing chorus of the Christmas hymn, and now 
he opens his lips to speak. He does not seem to 
see the people any more; his eyes behold, not 
palms, but pines; not the flowing brook, but the 
deep fiord, and the rugged mountains, and the snow^ 
fields tinged with the glory of the sun. He is no 
longer white-haired Father Olaf, but little Olaf with 
blue eyes and golden hair, sitting by the side of 
the nurse in the winter night of Norway. And 
with low voice he recites to the wondering people a 
strange legend of angels flying through the world 
with glad tidings, and preparing all men for the 
second coming of the Lord. 

A wonderful story it is, not like the simple talk 
that Father Olaf is wont to use—or only like it as 
a dream is like what men see with their eyes open. 
Eagerly the people listen, and when they hear of 
the angel of the South, give thanks to God through 
their tears that the good news he bore has come at 
last to them. 

The old man falters; he ceases to speak; but 
while they strain their weeping eyes to see him, 


and the South Sea. 


175 


and a few spring forward to offer assistance, he' sits 
erect, with new vigor, stretches out his trembling 
hands, and pronounces in the Norway tongue th£ 
homely, hearty Norway greeting: “ God’s peace be 
with you! ”—and in the midst of those he had served 
so well, Father Olaf yielded his spirit unto Him for 
whose sake the service had been freely given. The 
face of the dead was like the pure, earnest face of 
a little child—the child who heard the Christmas 
legend by the wild North Sea. And the people, 
looking upon it, said in their simple love and faith, 
“ This was the Angel of the South ! ” 

Truly, among God’s angels upon earth are those 
brave, gentle, holy men that do his will, bearing 
his Gospel through the world. And when he shall 
come again in his glory, whether the starry rays 
that fell on Bethlehem shall once more light the 
sky, we do not know; but this we know: that in 
the bright procession of his triumph the spirits of 
such as Father Olaf shall flash celestial radiance; 
for they that turn many to righteousness shall shine 
as the stars for ever and for ever. 


What the Horse said to Heze- 

KIAH. 



HE most wonderful thing in the 
world, I think, is the way that 
horses work and work, and never 
say a word. I have watched our 
old white nag, hour after hour, as 
he jogged along, pulling the rickety 
buggy, with my uncle and aunt on 
the seat, and me on a little stool 
in front of them. Old Charley listens to everything 
that is said behind him. He keeps one ear turned 
that way all the time, so as not to lose a word; 
and when one ear gets tired, the other takes its 
turn. Sometimes when my uncle is saying anything 
particularly interesting, and stops to think of the 
right word to express himself, old Charley will stop 
too, until the difficulty is over. Then my uncle 
brings out the word with a jerk, and puts the extra 
syllable, “g’lang,” at the end of it, and old Charley 
starts again, quite contented. He never has to stop 
in that way while my aunt is talking. 

176 



An Interview. 


177 


The other day my uncle was telling about 
a visit he had made to town, and said he, 
44 There I was introduced to an old friend of 
yours, Polly; that Mrs.—What’s-her-name ? Sho, 
now! what’s that woman’s name?” Charley stopped. 
44 She that married the lawyer, you know—old 
Squire Jones’s daughter—Hodkins.” Charley shook 
his head. “ Popkins—Hoskins — Tompkins —g’lang!” 
and Charley nodded vigorously and resumed his jog¬ 
trot. Evidently he knew the right name, all the 
while ; but he was too polite to interrupt the 
speaker. He was aware that people don’t like to 
have the words taken out of their mouths and put 
in again. If my uncle had been at home, trying to 
think of Mrs. Tompkins’s name, one would have 
put him out by suggesting Johnson, and another 
Jackson, and so on until somebody stumbled upon 
Tompkins by accident, and my uncle would have 
said, “ There, now, I knew it was Tompkins; why 
won’t you let a person think ? ” Horse-politeness 
is very rare, except among horses. 

Even in the stable or the pasture, where there is 
no need of company-manners, old Charley makes few 
remarks. Occasionally he gives a whinny or a neigh, 
or blows his nose loudly; but I doubt whether 
such noises are intelligible, any more than it is im¬ 
possible for me to tell, when I hear a particular 
sound up-stairs, whether my uncle is sneezing or 


178 What the Horse said to Hezekiah : 

calling Hezekiah, which is my name, and which 
sounds in the distance astonishingly like a sneeze. 

Folks keep silence, says the school-master, for one 
of two reasons. Some do it because they are igno¬ 
rant—and he wishes ail ignorant people would imi¬ 
tate them. Others are silent because they are wise 
—and that’s a pity; only perhaps, if they began to 
be talkative, they would soon become as ignorant 
as anybody. Now, there is a first-rate way, the 
school-master says, to find out whether a silent per¬ 
son is wise or stupid, and that is, to watch whether 
he pays attention to what goes on. And I think 
old Charley pays closer attention than anybody I 
ever saw. As he has done so for a great many 
years, it follows that he is very wise, and this is 
proved by the remarkable facts which I am going 
to relate. 

But first I will remark that I am only ten years 
old, and that, although I am at the head of the 
composition-class, I don’t pretend to write as well 
as this story is written; so I must explain how it 
happens that the school-master is really writing in 
my name. You see, I had to get up a composition, 
and the school-master gave me for a subject, “ The 
Horse ” ; and my big brother Dick said, if I’d get 
up first in the morning and make the fire for a 
whole week, he’d let me have an old composition 
of his on the same subject, to give me some ideas; 


An Interview . 


179 


and I did, and he gave me the composition; and 
it began, “ The horse is a noble animal ” ; and I 
told Dick it was no use, for Bob Pickerell’s compo¬ 
sition was just like that, only his was “ The Cow,” 
and I must have something different; and Dick said 
I was ungrateful, and I might write whatever I 
liked, for all him ; and I went to the school-master, 
and told him I didn’t know anything ab©ut the 
horse, and wouldn’t he let me write about old Char¬ 
ley instead; and he said, By all means; and when I 
brought him what I had written, he said it was a 
little crude, but quite remarkable for one of my age, 
and he would touch it up a little and have it printed. 
So the words are his, except where he has left mine 
as I wrote them; but the ideas are mine, and he 
says that I shall be called the author of the story; for 
it is better to put your own ideas in other people’s 
words than other people’s ideas in your own words. 

But after all, as you will see, old Charley is, ac¬ 
cording to this rule, the true author; for when I 
found that D-ick wouldn’t give me any ideas, I 
thought I would go to the one who knew most 
about horses, and who should that be but a horse? 
So next morning at daylight I slipped out to the barn, 
and there stood Charley, taking a little early hay, 
to stay his appetite before breakfast. I began the 
conversation with a lump of sugar, which he ate 
with great Relish, and put his nose into my coat- 


180 What the Horse said to Hezekiah : 


pocket to find another. But the rest of the sugar 
was in my pantaloons-pocket; for I knew his tricks 
and his manners. 

Scratching hi^ nose gently, to put him in good 
humor, I whispered in his ear, “ Old Charley, why 
don’t you talk a little ? ” He gave me a solemn 
look out of his eyes, and then a contemptuous sniff 
out of his nose, and made no further reply. “ You 
listen to everything that is said, and you see every¬ 
thing that is done, and you have lived many years; 
you must have opinions—” 

“ Ph-r-r-r-rh! ” said the old fellow; and then I 
heard a hoarse whisper, like the voice of a stage 
driver with a bad cold, “ Give me another lump 
of sugar, to clear my voice.” I was not at all sur¬ 
prised, for I had always believed that horses could 
talk—otherwise what would be the virtue of their 
keeping silent ? But I believed they were out of 
practice; and now I noticed that old Charley 
spoke entirely through his nose. 

“ Don’t try to humbug me,” said I; “ what good 
will sugar do? What you want is a pinch of my 
uncle’s sneezing-snuff, or a whiff of my aunt’s 
smelling-bottle. That would clear your voice. Su¬ 
gar will only spoil your teeth and your appe¬ 
tite.” 

“You’re just like all the rest of ’em,” wheezed 
old Charley. “ You think you know everything, and 


An Interview. 


181 

you don’t know a hay-cold when you see it, nor 
what’s good for it. Sugar, I say! ” 

“ But I want your opinions,” I replied, “ about— ” 
“ Well, that’s one opinion,” said he sharply, 
“ sugar for hay-cold. You won’t get any more till 
you treat that with respect.” He hadn’t been train¬ 
ing his mind so many years for nothing. The first 
time he undertook to talk with a human being, he 
got the better of the argument directly. I felt quite 
ashamed to be beaten, but there was no help for 
it, so I produced another lump of sugar. 

“ Now hold your tongue like a well-bred horse, 
young man, and I’ll say my say,” began he. “ Opi¬ 
nions? Plenty of ’em. Why don’t I offer ’em? 
Nobody ever asked for ’em till this morning. Peo¬ 
ple never talk to horses as if they expected an an¬ 
swer. It’s always 1 Get up ! ’ ‘ G’lang! ’ and ‘ Whoa ! ’ 
or perhaps, ‘ What d’ye mean, sir ? ’ When I was 
younger, if anybody said, ‘What d’ye mean, sir?’ to 
me in that way, when I hadn’t said a word, I 
just put my hind feet through the dash-board. It’s 
the only way to reply to such impertinence.” 

The old fellow’s voice improved rapidly as he 
went on, and I had no difficulty in understanding 
him. It was hard to keep from interrupting him 
with questions, but I was afraid that if I began to 
talk like a man, he would get huffy and be obsti¬ 
nately silent, like a horse. .1 am sure a grown-up 


182 


What the Horse said to Hezekiah: 


person could never have listened as I did, without 
speaking; but children have the advantage there. 
They are taught—or at least I was—to be seen and 
not heard; but when they are older, they forget the 
lesson. This is the reason why grown-up persons 
never succeed in conversing with horses; they in¬ 
sist upon having the whole conversation to them¬ 
selves, and horses don’t like that. 

“‘Give us another lump,” continued Charley. 
“ Well, as I was saying, I’ve got opinions enough, 
and what’s more, they’re my own. You men keep 
telling one another what you think, and the result 
is, everybody gets all mixed up in his opinions. 
Now, the only use of opinions is to keep ’em to 
yourself. So I shall not tell you any more of mine. 
But I’ll tell you a little story that you ought to 
know. It’s been told before, but it was all wrong, 
of course. I heard your uncle tell it, riding after 
the doctor, and I shook my head and stamped my 
feet, but he paid no attention. That was thirty 

years ago, when I hadn’t been more than one sum¬ 
mer in harness. 

“ I fell in love with the prettiest little girl that 
ever was born. She used to bring me sugar, too— 
give us another lump—and I never eat it without 

being reminded of her! Well, one day I was stand¬ 

ing in the meadow, looking over the fence into a 
very fine field of oats, and wondering how they 


An Interview. 183 

came to grow the wrong side of the fence. There’s 
a nice piece of poetry on that subject: 

* You, nor I, nor nobody knows 
How oats, peas, beans, or barley grows.’ 

Well, while I stood there, just picking my teeth 
with a straw, my little sweetheart came out of the 
house on the hill, and ran down to the bars. There 
were six bars, and she was too small to climb over 
them, but she could creep through between the two 
lower ones into the meadow-pasture, and she used 
to come very often in that way to visit me. I 
knew what she wanted—a ride on my strong back; 
so I galloped up by the side of the stone wall, at 
a place where the stones stuck out so as to make 
a kind of stairs. Up the stairs she went, and 
climbed from the top upon my back. I waited un 
til she had got fast hold of my mane, and then I 
trotted gently across the meadow, while she laughed 
and chirruped and talked to me as sweet as—sugar, 
young man ! 

“ Well, around the meadow and across the mea¬ 
dow we went, and down to the elms and willows 
by the creek. It was hardly more than a large 
brook, with round stones on the bottom and clear 
water above, up to my knees. On the other side 
was a grassy hill. I used to wade through the 
stream at a still, shallow spot, and graze on the hill. 


184 What the Horse said to Hezekiah : 

It would have been the best eating in the lot, only 
it was too full of dandelions. I don’t like dande¬ 
lions, except as a mere tonic, to be taken in mod¬ 
eration. Mixed with all one’s victuals, they are not 
good. 

“ When my darling little Sallie was on my back, 
I never used to cross the stream, for fear of acci¬ 
dents. But on this day that I speak of, she pulled 
at my mane as we came to the willows, and I 
stopped to hear what she had to say. ‘ Charley,’ 
said she, ‘ you must carry me over the river; I 
want some dandelions.’ I shook my head and 

snorted, and I really think I would have spoken, to 

explain that dandelions are not good, and that I 
did not like to cross the slippery stones with my 
precious load, but she slapped my neck in her 
ridiculous dear little way, and said, ‘ No imperence, 
sir; now you mind! ’ So I stepped carefully into 
the water. We got on very well as far as the mid¬ 
dle, and there she told me to stop and drink. I 
planted my feet on the best places I could find, 
and put my nose down to the water. Sallie knew 
no such thing as fear. She was full of delight at 
the beautiful green trees and their shadows on the 

still water. Presently I saw reflected in the stream 
her wee face in its pink sun-bonnet, peering over 
my shoulder to see me drink, and looking to me, 

in the picture below, for all the world like a lovely 


An Interview . 


185 


flower floating in the water. My own face was re¬ 
flected too, but I was used to that, and paid no 
attention to it. The next moment she clapped her 
hands and shouted, * Ho! I see two Charleys rub¬ 
bing their noses together in the brook. How funny! ’ 
Alas! at that very instant my hoof slipped from a 
round, shiny stone, and my darling, who had let go 
her hold in her childish glee, fell into the water! 

“ It was but an instant, .though it seemed a long 
time, before I had fastened my teeth in the skirt 
of her dress, pulled her out, carried her back to 
the bank, and laid her on a smooth, grassy mound. 
She opened her eyes once, smiled at me, and then 
closed them again. I watched her for some time, 
but she did not stir. 

“ Presently, far away across the meadow, I heard 
the sound of the tin horn, blowing for supper-time. 
It was Sallie’s elder sister, the wife of the farmer 
who owned and managed the place. She stood on 
the door-step and blew the horn so that it could 
be heard in all the fields, and she looked up and 
down the road, and across the meadow, to see what 
had become of the little girl; for Sallie was there 
on a visit, and she feared some harm might come 
to her. As for me, I took one look at my little 
darling, and then galloped as fast as I could to the 
front of the field, right across the road from the 
house, and close by the bars. Just as I got there, 


186 What the Horse said to Hezekiah: 


a young fellow arrived from the barn—a fine young 
fellow like you, only a little older. His name was 
Hezekiah, too, the same as yours. 

“‘O ’Kiah! ’ said the farmer’s wife, * what on 
earth has become of our Sallie ? She went out half 
an hour ago, and I thought she was going to the 
meadow to ride the horse, but I don’t see her any¬ 
where, and here’s Charley without her. Perhaps 
she’s wandered down the road to the toll-gate; it 
does beat all how such a little bit of a thing can 
walk and walk and not get tired out. Just jump 
on Charley’s back, will you, and ride down the road 
a piece, and see if you can see anything of her?’ 

“ Hezekiah never said a word, but ran for a 
halter; and I stretched my head over the bars to 
let him put it on, for I knew he loved Sallie as 
much as I did. He was always bringing her flow¬ 
ers and whittling dolls for her. Well, when he had 
got the halter on, he took down the bars, and un¬ 
dertook to lead me out. I pulled back with all 
my might, but he did not understand me. 1 Why, 
Charley,’ said he, 1 what’s the matter with you ? 
Come along; you and I must find our little girl 
before it is dark! ’ Then suddenly I thought of a 
better way, and pretending to be very obedient, I 
followed him into the road, and stood quietly while 
he put up the bars. He was in a great hurry, 
and did it as quickly as anybody could; but how 


An Interview . 


187 


long it seemed! It was worse than standing in the 
shed all through church-time. At last he spran'g 
upon my back, and we started down the road ; but, 
after going a rod or two, I wheeled suddenly about, 
and drove straight at the bars. Before ’Kiah could 
get his breath to shout or his strength to pull, I 
was in full career; and over we went at a flying 
leap, just grazing the top bar! Then away, away 
down the meadow, ’Kiah twitching at the halter 
and yelling whoa! and hanging on with his knees 
for dear life, and the people of the farm-house 
screaming and laughing and running; and I running 
and leaping like a hound, wild with joy that I had 
succeeded in getting the best help for our little girl. 
I crashed through the willow thicket, and then, 
checking myself at last, trotted gently along the 
bank to the place where she was lying. Her eyes 
were open now, but she looked pale, and shivered, 
and could not walk. So ’Kiah took her up in his 
arms, and then looked at me suspiciously, saying, 
‘1 don’t know what to make of you, Charley ; won’t 
you be running away again, if I undertake to ride 
home with Sallie?’ I was too indignant to reply, 
but my darling said, ‘ O ’Kiah! you can trust Char¬ 
ley ; he knew I was here, and he went for help. 
If it hadn’t been for Charley, perhaps nobody would 
ever have found me, for I guess my back is broken, 
and I could never have got home by myself.’ ‘ God 


188 What the Horse said to Hezekiah: 


forbid,’ said he, and kissed her, and dropped a tear 
on her face. ‘ Now I’ll kiss Charley, too,’ said she, 
and put her soft lips on my cheek, and out of her 
pocket she pulled—a lump of sugar, young man! 

“ Well, then I walked along in the water to a 
place where the bank was steep, and they got on 
my back without difficulty. In a few moments we 
were again within sight of the house. The folks 
hadn’t thought much of ’Kiah’s adventure ; they 
imagined it to be a coltish freak on my part, and 
knowing he was a good rider, they expected to see 
him come back all right, and me completely con¬ 
quered ; but when they perceived that I returned so 
gently, bearing, not only ’Kiah, but Sallie in his 
arms, they were frightened enough. Nobody stop¬ 
ped to ask questions; they ran to meet us, and 
carried our darling into the house ; and I was left 
for a little while, disconsolate and forgotten, stretch¬ 
ing my head across the bars. 

“ Presently out came Hezekiah again, looking very 
sad, and started for the barn; but after a few steps 
he turned and came to me. ‘ God bless you, Char¬ 
ley ! ’ said he, stroking my face and patting my neck. 

‘ I’ll never forget what you have done this day, as 
long as I live. You’ve saved our little girl, we 
hope. But now you and I must go for the doctor.’ 

“ Then he got out the buggy, and harnessed me, 
and away we trotted, a mile beyond the toll-gate, 


An Interview . 


189 


and found the doctor just sitting down to supper. 
He left everything at once—who wouldn’t that kne'y 
little Sallie?—and swiftly I took him to the farm¬ 
house. In about an hour he came out again, in a 
cheerful, business-like way, and Hezekiah drove him 
home. I heard what they said on the way, and 
learned that one of Sallie’s arms was out of joint, 
but not broken ; that she would be all right again 
in a few days; but that if she had lain a longer 
time in her wet clothes on the damp ground, in the 
evening air, so that inflammation had set in, there 
was no knowing what might have happened, and the 
doctor went on to remark that the performance of 
the horse was a remarkable instance of instinct, and 
he would publish it in the papers. How I hate 
newspapers! Just as soon as somebody gets half 
a story, he puts it in the papers, everybody reads 
it, and there’s no use in trying to make any correc¬ 
tions. 

“ Well, you may be sure I watched every day 
for my little darling; and when she was bright and 
well again, we had many a ride throughout the rest 
of the summer, only not in the brook. Yes, and 
every summer for many years she came to visit her 
sister; and every time she came she was fairer and 
more bewitching; and every time I found that she 
had not forgotten me. Hezekiah was very kind to 
me, too. He was the farmer’s brother, and worked 


190 What the Horse said to Hezekiah : 

on the farm in the summer, and went to college in 
the winter time. I recollect one day, when Sallie 
and he were taking a long ride in the buggy, and 
talking a good deal, he said in a few months more 
he should be a doctor, and Sallie replied, ‘ I always 
was glad you chose that, but everybody wonders 
what put it into your head.’ ” 

“ 4 It came into my head ten years ago this very 
day,’ said Hezekiah, 4 when Charley and I found you 
lying down by the brook, and I brought you—in 
my arms—to the house. I would have given the 
world to be a doctor then. And now I have 
nearly finished my studies, and brother has promised 
to give old Charley to me, to set me up in busi¬ 
ness.’ He called me old, though I was only four¬ 
teen, and Sallie was eighteen, and he was five or 
six years older. But folks never think of calling 
themselves old. 

“ 4 How nice! ’ said Sallie. ‘ Charley will make 
a capital doctor’s horse! You’ll like it ever so 
much, won’t you, Charley ? ’ 

“ I stopped in the road, and nodded several times 
and turned my head around, and took a long look 
at my dear, beautiful friend. Bless you, they both 
knew what I meant; I was willing enough to have 
Doctor Hezekiah for a master, but I wanted her 
too. And I stood perfectly still, waiting for him 
to say something more—in fact, to ask her if she 


An Interview . 


191 

would not be the doctor’s wife. My experience 
leads me always to stop on such occasions, till the 
critical moment is over. Folks don’t like to have 
their very best sentences spoiled by ruts and stones. 
But my experience led me to a wrong conclusion 
that time; for it was Sallie who spoke, not he; 
and she said, ‘That’s all settled, Charley; I’m going 
to be ’Kiah’s wife, unless he changes his mind! ’ 
Upon that I set off at a vigorous trot, to show 
my satisfaction ; and the wheels made such a rat¬ 
tling that all I heard was, ‘ Now, ’Kiah, aren’t you 
ashamed ? Right here in the road ! ’ 

“ Well, they were married, and ten happy years 
we had together. Then came the war, and the 
doctor went off—and I never saw him again. He 
died of a fever, caught in the hospital—" 

“ Why, that was my father! ” said I, interrupt¬ 
ing old Charley for the first time. “ And Sallie 
was my mother. Ah ! she died, too. It broke her 
heart to lose father. And I was nothing but a 
baby, and Dick was only seven years old, and un¬ 
cle and aunt took us, and—” 

“ And brought you back to the old place, where 
they have always lived, and me with you. And the 
bars are here yet, and the brook, and the meadow, 
but that’s turned into a barley-field. Heigh-ho! 

“‘You, nor I, nor nobody knows 

How oats, peas, beans, and barley grows 1 ” 


192 What the Horse said to HezekiaJi. 

“ Good-by, old Charley,” said I. “ I must hurry 
in now; but I am ever so much obliged to you. 
This will make a first-rate composition.” 

“A WHAT?” snorted old Charley, very indignant. 
When I explained the nature of a composition, he 
was not at all pleased, and said it was a mean 
trick, worthy of a mule or a man, to get a body 
to talk, and then go and write down what he said. 
He would never speak another word to me as long 
as he lived. 

“Not if I bring you lots of sugar?” said I in 
a winning tone. 

“ H’m—m—m!” said old Charley, “I’ll see about 
it! ” 


The Christmas angel. 


CE upon a time a little princess, 
whose name was Theodosia, awoke 
early in the morning, and as she 
lay in her soft bed she heard the 

chiming of bells, and she clapped 
her hands, and said : “ How glad 
I am! I know what the bells are 
saying. It is Christmas morning! ” 
And she was so eager that she for¬ 
got to say her prayers, and she forgot to call good¬ 
morning to the king her father and the queen her 

mother, and she slipped quickly out of bed, and 
ran barefooted down the marble stairs into the great 
palace drawing-rooms, to find what gifts the Christ¬ 
mas had brought her. As she pushed open the 

heavy door, she heard a sound like the rustling of 
wings, and it frightened her for a minute; but the 
Christmas bells rang clearly outside, and that gave 
her courage again; so she went boldly in. Ah! 
that was a beautiful sight! It was not yet broad 

day, but there was a soft light in the vast room, 

that seemed to come from a great white pearl that 



*93 






194 


The Christmas Angel: 


hung from the centre of the ceiling, and to be 

reflected from the broad mirrors on every wall. 

“ Ah! ” thought Theodosia, “ how I wish my 

present might be pearls! ” Then she looked again, 
and saw around the hall tablets with golden letters, 
and on each was a name. There was the king’s 
name, and the queen’s name, and the name of 

every one in the royal household; and under each 
was a heap of beautiful gifts. Her own name she 

could scarcely see, for it was far at the other end 
of the long hall; but she ran toward it, saying to 
herself: “ I don’t care what other folks are going 
to have, I want to see my pretty gifts.” So at 
last she came to the tablet on which her name 
appeared; but, alas! there was nothing under it— 
only a black leather bag, and upon it these words: 
“ This is for selfish Theodosia.” 

Still she thought that perhaps it might contain 
something beautiful for her, and she quickly raised 
it from the floor. But it was locked, and there 
was no key, and all she found by looking carefully 
was another inscription, engraved in small, fine 
letters, in the steel of the lock: “ I am worth 

much to him who can open me! ” The poor little 
princess stamped her bare feet on the cold floor 
with vexation and rage, and was ready to cry, only 
she was too proud; when suddenly she saw in one 
of the mirrors a dazzling and beautiful angel, stand- 


A Story of Blessing . 


J 95 


ing behind her. She was not frightened; for even 
in the glass she could see that he was kind and 
gentle. His garments were white as snow, and his 
face was fairer than the fairest picture ever thought 
of in a dream. Little Theodosia began to grow 
calmer as she saw his soft, clear eyes fixed upon 
her, and she turned herself to him at once, and 
said: “ I know who you are; you are the Christ¬ 
mas angel.” And, strange to say, at that moment 
she perceived that the great pearl no longer hung 
from the centre of the ceiling, but shone upon the 
angel’s brow. And he smiled a smile like sunshine, 
and then grew very grave and sad, and said to her: 
“ Poor child! you do not know the secret that un¬ 
locks all treasures! But if you will come with me, 
,we will find some one who can tell us! ” Then he 
held out his hand, and Theodosia put her hand in 
it at once, for she had no fear of him. Out 
through the door they went (it opened and shut of 
itself), and out through the great archway of the 
palace, into the wide, wide world. It seemed to 
Theodosia that her feet scarcely touched the ground, 
and she did not feel the cold, for the warm hand 
of the angel sent a delicious thrill through all her 
limbs. In one hand she grasped tightly the myste¬ 
rious bag, and every little while she looked up at 
the beautiful face of the angel, upon whose brow 
the great pearl shone serenely like a star. 



196 The Christmas Angel: 

As they passed through the quiet streets they 
saw few people stirring. Here and there some good 
Christian hastened to the early Christmas service, 
and high up in the Cathedral tower was a bright 
light, where the old sexton still rang merrily the 
Christmas bells. And as they walked the angel began 
to tell her the old, sweet story of the first Christmas 
day, and the Christmas gift of the child Jesus, 
which the dear God made to the world he loved, 
and how the kings and wise men came from far 
countries with rich offerings in their hands, and how 
the very beasts of the stable and the field were 
moved with strange reverence, and how the angels 
sang for joy* Theodosia looked up and said timidly, 
“ And were you there ? ” The angel seemed to be 
looking at some fair vision a long way off, as he 
said, low and sweetly, “Yes, I was there.” And 
with that he went on to tell how lovely was the 
child Jesus, so that all who looked upon him loved 
him, and began straightway to love one another 
also, and blessed the day when^they saw the Babe 
of Bethlehem. And finally tee stopped and said: 
“ Little Theodosia, do you know the meaning of 
Christmas ? ” Theodosia was silent, for she knew 
that she had forgotten all this in her eagerness for 
her own pleasure; but she presently took courage, 
and said, “ I know it means that Christ is born 
into the world.” 


A Story of Blessing. 


197 


And the Christmas bells sounded and sounded, 
and seemed to say, “ Peace on earth, and good¬ 
will TOWARD MEN.” 

By-and-by the angel stopped at a low cottage, 
and opened the door. They went into the poor, 
cheerless room, but they were not seen, for one 
cannot see the spirits of heaven when they choose 
to be invisible. As for Theodosia, the angel cov¬ 
ered her with the corner of his robe. There was 
a tallow candle dimly burning on the table, and a 
pale woman sat by it, sewing fast on a piece of 
work she had risen early to accomplish. A little 

boy, crying silently from cold and hunger, had 

crawled from his miserable bed into the corner, and 
was trying to light a fire of chips and cinders gath¬ 
ered in the street. And the pale woman lifted her 
eyes to heaven, murmuring over and over again, as 
if it were the only prayer she could remember, 

“ Give us this day our daily bread.” Theodosia had 
never heard of such misery before; all her little 

troubles melted away from her mind, and she 

thought, “ Oh ! why can I not do something to help 
these poor people ? ” She could not bear to wait 

until she could ask the king to help them. Just 
then she looked down, and behold the bag had 

opened a little way of itself, and she saw the gleam 
of silver money in it. In an instant, and before it 

shut together again, without stopping to think, she 


198 The Christmas Angel: 

scattered a handful of the money in the room. But 
wonderful to tell, the silver shower never struck 

the floor, but seemed to vanish in mid-air; and 

lo! a bright fire went leaping up the chimney, and 

on the table was food in plenty, and the little boy 

and his happy mother were thanking God, and 
blessing their unknown benefactor. Theodosia felt 
happy, too; and as the angel led her away, she 
thought the Christmas bells were saying: “ Naked, 
AND YE CLOTHED ME ; HUNGRY, AND YE GAVE ME 
MEAT ; VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU, Ye DID IT UNTO 
ME ! ” 

Presently they found themselves in an upper 
chamber, in another part of the city. It was broad 

daylight now. There were a dozen little children 

in the room, with scraps of newspapers and one or 
two tattered books, from which they were learning to 
read and spell. And in the midst stood the teacher, 
a poor young factory-girl, who taught the little 

ones of the neighborhood every morning at day¬ 
break, before going to her work, because she would 
not let them go ignorant for want of her help. 

And Theodosia heard her say: “ Now let us get 
through with our lessons quickly, and then we will 
all go and have a Christmas holiday, looking at the 
fine things in the stores and the pretty ladies on 
the street. Who knows, perhaps the king and the 
queen and the princess may ride by! ” When Theo- 


A Story of Blessing. 


199 


dosia heard that, she thought, “ How I should 
like to help these little ones! They have no plea¬ 
sure but in looking at the pleasure of other peo¬ 
ple ! ” And the bag opened half-way of itself, and 
she saw there was gold in it. For a moment she 
hesitated, saying to herself: “With this gold I 
could buy myself the necklace of pearls that I wish 
so much to have!” But just then the bag began 
slowly to shut up again, and she gave one look at 
the little children, and quickly drew from it all the 
gold, which she scattered in the room. And the 
room changed by magic into a beautiful school¬ 
room, and the happy children were wreathing it in 
green, and the teacher, no longer a poor factory- 
girl, but a fair and gentle woman, was just about 
to distribute to them their Christmas gifts, and 
Theodosia wished so much to stay, but the angel 
drew her away. When they were once more in the 
street, the angel said: “ Do you know the secret 
now ? ” And Theodosia said nothing, but the 
Christmas bells rang out: 

“ Not what we get, but what we give. 

Makes up our treasure while we live ! ” 

This time the angel lifted her from the earth, 
and carried her swiftly over the whole land, and 
over many other lands. And she saw how many 
people there were who did not yet know what 


200 


The Christmas Angel: 


Christmas meant ; yes, many thousands of them had 
never heard of Christ who was born in Bethlehem. 
And her heart, that was so warm now with the 
Christmas love, could not bear to think of so much 
sin and sorrow; and this time she put her hand 
on the lock of the bag, saying to herself: “If 
there is any more of the magical money in it, I 
will throw it down upon this poor, unhappy, wicked 
world.” The bag opened very easily, but there was 
nothing in it save a magnificent necklace of pearls! 
In vain she looked for silver and gold; she must 
either give up the necklace of pearls or nothing. 
So she took one look more at the beautiful gems, 
and then flung them down upon the earth; and 
the necklace broke as it fell, scattering the pearls 
far and wide; and where every pearl fell, behold 
there arose by magic a church or a mission-school, 
and in all languages were heard the songs of 
thanksgiving from children and from old people. 
And the angel said to her: “Now see, your bag 
is empty: are you not sorry ? ” But she looked 
straight into his kind eyes, and said : “ I have found 
the secret now! ” And the Christmas bells rang 
out: “ It is more blessed to give than to 

RECEIVE! ” 

Then the angel caught her to his bosom with 
great joy, and flying swiftly through the air, he 
brought her back to the palace of the king; and 



THE SECRET DISCOVERED. 
“/ have found the secret Page 200. 


































































































A Story of Blessing. 


201 


lo! in the great hall were all the gifts still piled, 
and the king and the queen had not yet come. 
So he carried Theodosia to the place where her 
name was, and behold! when she looked, there 
lay the black bag wide open and full of gifts in¬ 
numerable, and on each gift some curious inscrip¬ 
tion. A beautiful bouquet of flowers bore the 
words, “ These are the prayers of the poor ”; and 
upon a crystal goblet, “ The disciple’s reward ”; but 
most lovely of all was the necklace of pearls that 
hung from the tablet, every pearl bearing a single 
name, like Patience, Gentleness, Truth, Innocence; 
and three pearls larger than the rest, and on the 
largest pearl, which was the very copy of the starry 
one upon the angel’s brow, she read, “ The great¬ 
est of these is Charity.” Then she knew what was 
the true name of the Christmas angel; and he van¬ 
ished away and she saw him no more. And she 
saw also that the black bag was like her own 
heart, which, when closed to charity, was of no 
use; but when opened for the sake of others, 
grew richer in treasure all the time. And the 
Christmas bells rang once more: “ God SO LOVED 
THE WORLD ! ” and again, “ BELOVED, IF God SO 
LOVED US, THEN OUGHT WE TO LOVE ONE 
ANOTHER.” 

May the Christmas angel dwell with every one 
of us, round and round the whole year! 



The Wrong Stocking. 



EARLY twelve at night, the chil¬ 
dren fast asleep in their little room 
opening out of ours, and my wife 
and I sitting up to fill the stock- 
i ings. Two boys, two stockings; 
two lots of presents of equal 
value. But, unfortunately, the har¬ 
mony and pleasure of our pre¬ 


parations had been disturbed by a piece of “ original 
sin ” on the part of Master Harry, who had got 
into one of his tantrums of passion that very after¬ 
noon, and broke some furniture, besides striking his 
twin-brother Ernest. It was on receiving a report of 
these proceedings, as I’ returned from business the 
day before Christmas, that I told the young rowdy 
in a general way that Santa Claus didn’t bring pre¬ 
sents to boys that behaved like him; and now I was 
firmly insisting, against the meek objections of my 
wife (who is a sweet little thing, without judgment, 
and never would get along with the children if they 
took a notion to disobey her as they do me)— 


202 







A Story for Fathers . 


203 


firmly insisting, I say, that Harry needed a good 
lesson, and a good lesson he should have. No¬ 
thing must go into his stocking but a piece of 
charcoal and a bunch of rods. Ernest should have 
all his presents, of course; he was a good, gentle, 
and affectionate boy; but those destined for Harry 
must be put away on the top shelf in the cupboard 
till some future day when he should deserve 
them. 

As I have said, my wife made objections. She 
is an ingenious woman, and she approached the 
subject somewhat as follows: 

“ We can’t keep these cakes on that shelf, 
Harry.” (My name is Harry too; and the boy is 
just like what I was at his age—which makes me 
determined that his temper shall be subdued be¬ 
fore he grows up. It took me twenty years to 

conquer mine, and I mean to take the thing in the 

bud with him.) 

“ Very well,” said I, “ eat ’em yourself, or give 

them to Ernest, or send them to the poor, or throw 

them away, or let the rats find them on the shelf. 
I don’t care what you do with any of the things 
—only don’t use them to reward a naughty child.” 

“ Don’t you think it a very severe punishment 
to destroy the boy’s Christmas pleasure? It comes 
but once a year, you know, and Harry has been 
looking forward to it for months.” 


204 The Wrong Stocking: 

“ The more careful he ought to have been #ot 
to throw it away by his unruly spirit. I tell you, 
the child is defiant still. When I said to him that 
he was a bad boy, and Santa Claus wouldn’t bring 
him anything, he stamped on the floor, and told me 
to my face he didn’t care.” 

“ But I think he does care,” timidly remarked 
my wife (who, in her soft way, has a remarkable 
ability for sticking to her subject); “ he cried a good 
deal to himself in bed, although he turned his back 
to Ernest, and wouldn’t speak.” 

“ Rather a meagre repentance,” said I, “ and it 
comes too late, besides. I tell you, he don’t de¬ 
serve any presents.” 

“Do we give presents out of justice, or love?” 
persisted my wife. “ And there is Ernest; it will 
spoil his Christmas, too, if his brother is unhappy.” 

“ I am sorry for that, but I cannot help it; the 
innocent always suffer more or less with the guilty.” 

Just then we heard voices in the next room. 
The boys had waked up, and were talking in low 
tones. “ I say, Ern,” whispered our little Hotspur, 
“ there’s a light in the big room. I guess Santa 
Claus has come ! ” 

“ We must lie perfectly still, and not look at 
him,” replied Ernest; “he is filling up the stockings.” 

“ Oh! dear,” said Harry, “ and he will leave for 
me the switch and charcoal that he carries for bad 


$ 


A Story for Fathers . 


205 


boys. Let him, then; he may keep his old presents. 
What do I care ? ” 

“ Now don’t talk so,” replied Ernest’s sweet 
voice. “ If you are sorry, perhaps he will give you 
something after all.” 

“ I tell you, I won’t say I’m sorry, just to get 
something. That’s too mean. But I am sorry I hit 
you t Ern ; that’s a fact. I say, let’s snuggle.” 

Thereupon there was some chuckling and rustling 
and suppressed laughter, with now and then a 
smothered exclamation — “ Owtch! you tickle ! ”— 
and our two seven-year-olds went off to sleep, spoon- 
fashion. 

My wife gave one of her looks, as much as to 
inquire what I thought of that. “ A touch of feel¬ 
ing,” said I, “ but transient, merely transient. What 
the boy wants is to have the sense of kis sin 

deeply impressed upon him.” 

She had filled one stocking by this time; and 

the other lay empty across her knee. I took 
them both, and hung them up on either side of the 
fire-place, the full one nearest the boys’ room. 

“ Give me the labels to pin to them,” said I. 
She gave them to me with trembling hand, and 
cried out with a sob, “ Oh ! don't put a rod into 

Harry’s! ” 

“ Well, I confess,” said I, “ that does seem a 

little barbarous on second thought. I was only 


206 


The Wrong Stocking: 


meaning to comply with the legend, you know; not 
to indicate a whipping. I never whipped a child 
of mine, and I never shall. Justice and moral 
suasion (firmly administered , my dear!) are quite 
sufficient for family government. Now, what’s the 
use of your crying ? That doesn’t affect the argu¬ 
ment in the least. I’m not a brute; you have 
only to convince me by reason—don’t try tears.’’ 

My wife is at heart a sensible woman, and when 
I spoke in this calm and reasonable tone, she qui¬ 
etly retired, only saying, “ I hope you are right.” I 
pinned the labels hastily to the stockings, and shortly 
after went to bed with a good conscience. 

It was barely daylight when I was waked by 
shouts of triumph and laughter from the next room. 
It had always been our custom to let the young 
ones jump out of bed whenever they liked, Christ¬ 
mas morning, capture their respective stockings from 
the fireplace in our room, and return to the warm 
retreat with their booty; and my wife and I took 
great delight in watching unseen their innocent won¬ 
der and joy. This morning the old habit was much 
stronger upon me than my recollections; I forgot 
entirely, for the moment, the little incident of family 
discipline, and springing up, dressed myself hastily, 
not to lose the Christmas fun. My wife, in her 
morning-gown, was already watching the children 
through the crack of the door; and as I joined her, 


A Story for Fathers . 


207 


cast upon me a look of perplexity, gratitude, and 
happiness that puzzled me strangely. “ Ah ! ” said 
she, “ you played me a cruel trick; but I am so 
glad ! ” 

“What do you mean?” said I. 

“ Now you needn’t make believe any longer, you 
stern parent,” she responded playfully; “look there!” 
Whereupon I posted myself behind her, to get a 
good view over her shoulder through the crack of 
the door—in which position nothing was more natu¬ 
rally accidental than the gentle sliding of one arm 
around her waist, and a whisper of “Merry Christ¬ 
mas ” in her ear, followed with another slight cere¬ 
mony indicative of affection, but conducted with the 
minimum of resonance (just the least little smack), 
so as not to inform the children of our presence. 
After which preliminaries I peeped into the boys’ 
room. There they sat, waist-deep in billows of bed¬ 
clothes, Harry’s brown head and Ernest’s yellow one 
close together, and their eager eyes fixed on the 
stocking, out of the depths of which our naughty 
son was fishing treasures, with his nimble fingers for 
a hook, his whole arm for a line, and his bending 
body for a pole. 

“ Halloo ! Ern, what’s this ? It feels round ! It 
is round ! ! It ain’t an orange !!! Here she comes !!! 
Hooray! look here—it’s a ball!!! That’s bully; 
we wanted a ball, didn’t we ? ” 


208 


The Wrong Stocking: 


“ Yes/’ chimed Ernest, “ I like a ball better than 
anything. Two can play at ball. It takes two.” 
Meanwhile Harry had picked up the stocking again, 
and cried out, “ There’s something hard in the toe! 
It’s your turn now, Ern ; you pull it out.” 

(I pause to remark that the genuine handiwork 
of Santa Claus may be recognized in this: there is 
always a treasure in the toe of the stocking to be 
discovered, dug after, extricated, unrolled, and re¬ 
joiced over, after everything else has been displayed. 
This is the last drop that makes the child’s cup of 
joy overflow—the sweetest surprise of all.) 

The something hard proved to be a jack-knife, 
over which the boys set up a perfect war-whoop of 
mutual congratulation. By this time I realized that 
something was wrong. Harry was not getting his 
“ lesson ” at all. A swift glance at the fireplace 
told me that the empty stocking at the further side 
had not been removed. I ran to examine it, and 
found to my consternation that the label bore the 
name of good little Ernest! In the confusion of 
the domestic preparation (and discussion) of the night 
before, I had pinned the wrong names to the stock¬ 
ings, and “ the fat was all in the fire.” Evidently 
my wife thought I had relented, or never meant to 
be severe, and that after she went to bed I had 
blessed both the boys alike. I was just about to 
try by an explanation to straighten out matters, 


A Story for Fathers. 


209 


when she turned, with her finger on her lip, and 
beckoned me back to our observatory. 

The boys were sitting in the midst of their tro¬ 
phies, quiet from very fulness of joy. Suddenly 
Harry broke out: “Look here, Ern ; I don’t want 
these things. Santa Claus has plenty of good chil¬ 
dren to give things to; he can’t waste them on 
naughty ones. You take them—and you’ll let me 
play with them, won’t you? You always do, you 
know.” 

“ Now, you mustn’t feel so, Harry,” said gentle 
Ernest. “ Look here; I’ll tell you a secret. Santa 
Claus brings them; but other folks help, or at least 
they tell him what to fetch; and sometimes, I 
guess, when he says, ‘ I won’t give anything to that 
naughty boy,’ they tease him till he says, ‘ Well, 
if you get the things, I’ll put them in the stock¬ 
ing.’ That must be the way, for I heard father say 
the other day, ‘ I’ll get him a jack-knife ; the boy is 
big enough to have a jack-knife ’; and mother said, 
4 Well, and I’ll get a ball ; that’s a good thing for 
boys, though I never could see much fun in it my¬ 
self.’ And then I went into the room, and both 
of them said 1 Sh—! ’ But mother told somebody 
else that he might buy something for Santa Claus 
to give to you, and I sha’n’t tell you who it was; 
but he bought a pop-gun, and I can’t think what 
has become of it.” 



210 


The Wtong Stocking: 


“ That was you, you splendid, dear, good bro¬ 
ther,” cried Harry, “ and I’m never, never going to 
get angry with you again as long as I live. But I’ll 
tell you something; somebody sent Santa Claus a lit¬ 
tle white slate for you, and what do you think? I 
found it in the top of my stocking—I know it was 
my stocking, you see, because mother let me print 
my name on the paper, and said she would pin it 
to the stocking, so that Santa Claus shouldn’t make 
any mistakes — and wasn’t it funny? He did make 
a mistake, after all, and stuck your slate right in 
the top of it. So I just hid it in my night-gown, 
to surprise you, and look a’ there! That’s a bully 
slate, Ern; it cost fifteen cents.” 

“ Why, that’s your fifteen cents, Harry, that you 
saved up! Now that’s splendid; but, I say, you’ll 
never get a sled, if you spend your money that 
way. You were going to get a sled, you know.” 

“ Never you mind the sled,” replied Harry, a 
little embarrassed, “ it takes too awful long to get 
sleds. I like slates, on the whole, ever so much 
better; and then you see, Ern, yesterday afternoon 
—you know—after that—you know—after I struck 
you—I just begged mother to let me go down to 
Murray’s for a minute, and she didn’t ask me any 
questions (mother always knows what a fellow means), 
and I made her promise she wouldn’t tell anybody, 
not even father—that is, not till after this morning 


A Story for Fathers . 


2 I I 


—and I just legged it as tight as I could go, and 
got that slate, and mother gave it to Santa Clause— 
and—and—look here, Em, you do forgive me, dont 
you ! ” 

Ernest is no milk-sop, as his reply showed. 
“ Of course,” said he, “ a fellow an’t "going to hate 
his own brother. What if a fellow did strike a 
fellow, if he didn’t exactly mean to, and is real 
sorry ? But there’s no use talking of those things 
Christmas-day. Mother says everybody must be 
happy Christmas-day.” 

“ That’s so,” assented Harry, as if a great weight 
were off his heart; “but I say, Ern, you’ve got *a 
stocking, too, and you’ve forgot all about it! Now, 
that’s^ just like you ; you cared more for my stock¬ 
ing than you did for your own.” 

“ Well, it was such fun,” said Ernest; “ and be¬ 
sides, I’ve got my slate. But I’ll just scud out 
and get my stocking now. Say, is the floor cold ? ” 

“ Awful,” replied Harry, with a shiver of remem¬ 

brance ; “you’d better put on your shoes.” 

This delay was lucky for me. At the first allu¬ 
sion to that other stocking, I turned and saw that 
all the gifts intended for it were lying on the table 

still, where they had been left the night before. 

Santa Claus himself, with forty million stockings, 
more or less, to fill in one night, don’t make better 
time than I did on that one; and I had just cram- 


212 


The Wrong Stocking: 


med the last package into it, and regained my place 
behind the door, when Ernest came in, clumping 
along in his untied shoes. We pounced on him 
from our hiding-place with “ A Merry Christmas,” 
at which Harry rushed in and “ caught us ” with his 
swift greeting. The other stocking was carried in 
festive procession back to the boys’ room; and four 
heads, instead of two, were knocked joyfully together 
over its contents. Harry was a little inclined to be 
silent in my presence at first, but he soon forgot 
himself, and great was his glee when out of the 
leg of Ernest’s stocking came his pop-gun. 

“ Santa Claus made such a funny mistake, didn’t 
he ? ” cried the merry voices. 

My wife looked one of her looks at me.. On 
the whole, it was very good of her not to allude 
(as she never has done since) to my blunder in 
family government. She only said, “Yes, it was a 
funny mistake, but it is all right now.” 

Of course I think my first plan was the right 
one, though I spoiled it by my carelessness about 
the labels. But circumstances having put it beyond 
my power to carry it out consistently, and the chil¬ 
dren being so very jolly, and my wife so perfectly 
charming, I am resolved not to disturb the universal 
pleasure by any remnant of parental sternness. (To 
be candid, I forgot all about it, and it only oc¬ 
curred to me after breakfast, during a furious game 


A Story for fathers. 213 

of ball with the boys, that I had better make this 
resolution.) 


POS TSCRIP T. 

Harry has disappeared for an hour, and his mo¬ 
ther comes to me with a folded paper, saying, 
“ This is a letter from a little boy who thought he 
could better write than speak what he had to say.’' 
The letter is printed (in very good style, too, I 
must say—I had no-idea the boy could do so well; 
his mother says she taught him at odd times). It 
runs as follows: 

“ Dear Sir. I am verry sorry for everything and I 
will try to be good. I thank you verry much for my ball 
it is a bully ball if I am nauty agan, please show me 
this leter. Your respectfully Henry Clay Hopkins." 

That wife of mine, with tears of pleasure in her 
gentle eyes, and a touch of sweet mischief at the 
corner of her mouth, says, “ Is there any answer ? ” 

“God bless you, my darling!” says I (and shall 
say the same as long as I live), “ and bless the boys 
your love is educating. I trust Harry Jias received a 
good lesson, but I know / have. You have converted 
me to the Christmas plan of full and free forgiveness.” 

“ Is it not Christ’s plan ? ” says she. 


The Idea that Flew out of the 
Fire. 


# 

HIS story is not merely a true one. 
Some people seem to think that if 
a thing really happened, that is rea¬ 
son enough for telling it; but I am 
not one of them. This story is 
truer than true. It applies to every¬ 
body that ever lived, from Adam 
down to our little baby, who was 
born this morning at half-past four—or, for that 
matter, down to our baby’s great-great-great-gran'd- 
children, if he should ever have any. But if it 
applies to everybody, then, according to the rules 
of algebra, it applies to Felix Graham—and that is 
an important point ; for the very first word in the 
story is his name, as you will immediately see, un¬ 
less you lose the place, and can’t find it again. 

Felix Graham was thirteen years old, and knew 
a great deal. I cannot tell you how many things 
he knew, but among them were skating, and snow¬ 
balling, and sliding down hill, and spinning tops, 
and playing ball, and flying kites, and turning som- 



214 





A Rainy Day Story. 


215 


ersets, and shooting marbles. These accomplishments 
are not very useful, perhaps, to grown-up folks, but 
they are quite proper and necessary to boys. Certain¬ 
ly, Felix’s mother had none of them ; so you perceive 
he knew more than his mother, which is just what 
he thought himself. These mothers are so ignorant! 

It was very provoking, therefore, when one Sat¬ 
urday Felix was not allcftved to go skating because 
there had been a thaw, and his mother thought the 
ice would be too thin and weak. Didn’t all the 
boys say it would “ bear ” ? The thaw had spoilt 
the sliding, too; and, to make matters worse, it 

began to rain during the forenoon, so that Felix 
was forced to stay indoors altogether, and see his 
holiday melt away like the snow in the yard, with¬ 
out doing him any good. He was sitting alone in 
the parlor, before the blazing fire, in what he 

thought was a manly attitude, with his legs astride 
of the chair-seat and his arms folded upon the top 
of the back; and as he looked into the fire, he 
made up his mind that life was exceedingly disap¬ 
pointing and disagreeable, and his mother very un¬ 
reasonable. If she had let him go skating, just as 
like as not it wouldn’t have rained at all. She be¬ 
gan it, and now it was too bad ! Boys of thirteen 

years often reason in this way. I think it comes 
of turning too many somersets, and walking too 
much on their hands. 


216 The Idea that Flew out of the Fire: 

All at once he saw the oddest little face just at 
the tiptop of the dancing flame in the fireplace, and, 
looking closer, he thought he perceived a body be¬ 
longing to it. It looked like a man, seen through 
the wrong end of an opera-glass. Felix used to 
take his mother’s opera-glass and look at his feet 
that way. If you never tried it, you would better 
do so. It is highly extraordinary, and makes you 
feel as it you had been pulled like molasses-candy'. 
But this little man was sitting with his knees drawn 
up under his chin, and his hands clasped around 
them, and seemed to be perfectly comfortable, al¬ 
though the fire kept tossing him. up and down, so 
that the eye could scarcely follow him. Besides, he 
was apparently white-hot all over- 

“ Halloo ! ” said Felix, “ who are you ? ” 

The small chap in the fire evidently answered 
something, but he could not be heard in the crack¬ 
ling and roaring. 

“ Come out of that,” said Felix, “ and get some¬ 
where where I can see you and hear you.” 

With one jump the stranger flew out of the fire¬ 
place, for all the world just like a spark, and lit on 
the marble top of a table. Gracefully standing near 
a book-rack which happened to be there, he gradu¬ 
ally turned red-hot, and then bluish, finally assum¬ 
ing natural colors, such as everybody has. “ Lucky 
I didn’t light on a chair,” said he, in a voice that 


A Rainy Day Story . 217 

sounded like a trumpet a long way off, “ I should 
have scorched it some, I promise you. Who am 
I? I’m an Idea. Don’t you know what that is? 
Poor fellow! don’t get an Idea very often, do 
you ? ” And with that he laughed like a baby’s 
rattle. 

“ I have Ideas a plenty, I tell you,” said Felix, 
rather vexed, “ but I never saw one before.” 

“Yes,” said the little stranger with great scorn, 
“ you do have Ideas, but what Ideas! Contempti¬ 
ble, ragged, surly, sour, selfish fellows! See ’em ? 
Of course not. You don’t suppose such vagabonds 
would let you see ’em ? But / saw one sitting in 
your ear a minute ago.” 

Felix put his hand quickly to his ear, at which 
the merry fellow on the table gave another shrill 
laugh, and shouted in his silvery way, “ Oh ! he's 
gone; those low people never stay where one of 
our set comes! Look at me! Do I look as if 
such vile Ideas could associate with me ? ” With 
that he drew himself up to his full height, which 
was about six inches, put his hand on his hip, and 
began to grow red-hot again. 

Felix did not know whether to be amused or 
frightened, but he felt as though there could be no 
danger from such a tiny opponent, unless, indeed, 
he should “ fire up ” and go flying about like a 
spark; so he addressed him in a respectful tone, at 


218 The Idea that Flew out of the Fire : 

which the little man’s wrath slowly faded away. 
“What makes you get so hot?” said Felix. 

“That’s our way,” replied his visitor. “We 
Ideas are not very powerful unless we come hot. 
Sometimes we visit a person to play with him or 
to put him to sleep; and very ofteh we get used 
to a person and dwell with him almost all the time. 
Then, of course, we don’t make such a fuss about 
coming; but when we undertake to make a call 
where those vulgar, selfish Ideas have been staying, 
then, I tell you, we come hot. You see, about ten 
minutes ago we got a telegram at the central office, 
saying, ‘ Boy infested with wicked Ideas, despises 
mother, grumbles at weather, tired of life, says things 
are too bad. Detail one respectable Idea instantly 
to take possession of him.’ That was the despatch, 
and they detailed me, and you had better believe 
I came hot. Rather! That rowdy crew that had 
you when I arrived are the worst gang I ever saw 
in my life. They haven’t gone far away, now; 
they are waiting to see whether I get possession 
or not.” 

“ That’s all nonsense! ” said Felix. “ How are 
you going to get possession ? What’s your name ? 
Where did you come from ? How long will you 
stay ? ” 

“ One question at a time,” said the queer little 
stranger. “ But I’ll answer them all in my own 




FELIX AND THE IDEA. 

J! hen he had turned himself, he got a better view cf his visitor than before, 
and noticed him more closely, remarking his closefitting jacket, boots over his 
pantaloons, jaunty cap, and bright, merry face ."—Page 219. 




































































































































































































































































A Rainy Day Story . 


219 


order. As for my name, I am called Cheerfulgrati- 
tude—not Cheerful without the Gratitude, nor Grati¬ 
tude without the Cheerful. It’s Cheerfulgratitude, all 
one word, five syllables. Don’t you try to separate 
it in the middle; it can’t be separated. I came 
from the central office. If you don’t know where 
that is, ask your mother; she’ll know; she often 
sends messages there. I am going to stay as long 
as I think best; and that depends upon whether I 
get possession of you. And I shall not tell you 
how I mean to do that, for fear you will spoil my 
plan. If you have any more questions, bring them 
along, and I’ll answer them! Only stop kicking 
pour heels on the floor, and turn around and sit up 
like a gentleman. People that sit astride of chairs 
in that way don’t get any Ideas! ” 

Felix did as he was bidden, almost without think¬ 
ing, he was so interested in the independent, airy 
little wight on the table. When he had turned him¬ 
self, he got a better view of his visitor than before, 
and noticed him more closely, remarking his close- 
fitting jacket, boots over his pantaloons, jaunty cap, 
and bright, merry face. “ Why, you are dressed 
just like me!” said Felix. 

“That’s our way,” was the reply; “we always 
wear clothes like the people we stay with. If I get 
possession of* you, I shall not only dress like you, 
but look like you—or rather, you will look like me, 


220 The Idea that Flew out of the Fire : 

which is the same thing, only a great deal better. 
Now, what more do you want to know ? ” 

Felix had by this time almost forgotten his dis¬ 
content ; but he remembered what he had been 
thinking of when Mr. Cheerfulgratitude made his ap¬ 
pearance, and resolving not to give up so easily his 
belief that - he was an unjustly-treated victim of 

Providence and his mother, he said in tones that 

were not half as mournful as he tried to make 
them, “ Well, then, if you know so much, I wish 
you’d just tell me why nothing ever goes as I 

would have it, and why I never have anything I 

want.” 

“ Poor little outcast boy,” said the small voice 

from the table, “ he has no home, nor friends, nor 

clothing, nor food, nor fire! ” 

“ Oh ! you know well enough what I mean,” said 
Felix; “I don’t mean those ordinary things.” 

“ Ordinary! ” said the Idea, very indignantly. 

“ I’ll give you a taste of something extraordinary! ” 
And with that the fire went out like • a candle, 
without leaving a single spark, and the wind and 
sleet came down the chimney together. The win¬ 
dow flew open, and the storm raged around the 

room as if it did not know the difference between 
in doors and out. Felix began to shiver with cold. 

“‘There!” said he, “what did I tell you! Now 
the fire is out. That’s always my luck.” 


A Rainy Day Story . 


221 


“ But you have a good many things left to be 
thankful for,” said the voice from the table—“ foody 
and clothes, and home, and parents.” 

“What’s the use of talking that way?” said Fe¬ 
lix, half crying. “ Don’t you see the fire is out, and 
I am cold ? ” 

“Very well,” said Mr. Cheerfulgratitude. “I sup¬ 
pose you know that people have no right to any 
blessing until they have paid for it in thanks.” And 
instantly Felix found himself stripped of his fine 
warm clothes, and sitting before the chilling fireplace 
and in the driving storm, with nothing on his limbs 
hut a ragged shirt and pantaloons, which barely 
covered him, but could not begin to keep him warm. 
His suffering soon was more than he could endure; 
and he would have hastened to find his mother and 
get relief from her sympathy and care; but he re¬ 
called to mind how lately he had said that he 
“ didn’t want women interfering in his affairs,” and 
he was still too proud to confess his need of her 
assistance; so he sat, moaning and shivering, and 
felt .that he was the most miserable boy in the whole 
world. “ Nothing could be worse than this,” he 
murmured. But, alas! he soon found that there were 
sharper pains than cold; for a fierce hunger seized 
him, and he grew as weak in one moment for the 
want of food as though he had been fasting for 
da/s. Then his head began to ache, and dreadful 


222 The Idea that Flew out of the Fire: 


pangs to shoot through all his limbs. It was not 
long before his pride gave way, as his fortitude had 
done already, and he staggered to the door, calling 
piteously, “Mother!” But a voice close by his ear 
replied: “ The boy that was not content with his 
mother’s watchful tenderness, and thought she was 
always spoiling his fun, must do without a mother 
now. She is gone.” 

This was more terrible than all the rest. Felix 
burst into loud crying, and almost forgot his other 
sorrows in this overwhelming one. He really did 
love his mother. All boys do; though they fre¬ 
quently have queer ways of showing it. You may 
think it strange that Felix did not wonder how so 
many afflictions could have come upon him all at 
once, and at least suspect that they were merely 
sent to try him, and to teach him some important 
lesson. But Felix was no more stupid than you, or 
I, or everybody. When we are in trouble, we only 
think of the trouble itself; and if the minister tells 
us that our sorrows are meant to do us good, we 
find it very hard to believe, and very likely feel 
that he has no sympathy, and does not understand 
our case at all. So Felix just threw himself on the 
floor, and cried for his mother, and really was at 
last, as he had fancied he was before, one of the 
most miserable boys in the whole world. As for * 
little Mr. Cheerfulgratitude, who seemed to have'be- 


A Rainy Day Story . 


223 


haved not at all like his name, he disappeared up 
the chimney, having done all the mischief he could. 

What would have become of Felix, if he had 
been left alone much longer, I cannot say. He felt 
that he could not bear his dreadful lot, and, having 
exhausted himself with crying, lay still, with a 
crushed feeling, as if the whole round world had 
been rolled upon him. 

Just then he heard a .step in the room, and a 
voice said, “ Why, my dear boy, what are you doing 
here ? ” Oh! how gladly he sprang up and threw 
his arms about his mother’s neck, sobbing again for 
joy! 

“My darling, darling mother! you have come 
back, and you won’t go away to leave me again, 

will you? I’ll never be selfish and disobedient to 

you any more; indeed and indeed I will not! ” 

His mother could not understand such a tempest 
of tears and joy, for she did not know, as you and 
I do, the sufferings through which he had passed. 
She only said, “You are wet and cold, and you 

must be hungry, too ; for it is long past dinner¬ 
time. Let me go for dry clothes, and bring you 
something to eat. See, you have let the fire go out, 
and the storm has blown open the window and 

beaten upon you. My dear child, you should be 
more careful; I fear you have caught a bad cold. 
Your head is hot, and you seem to be in pain.” 


224 The Idea that Flew ovt of the Fire: 

But he answered, “ Oh! no, it is not that; I don't 
feel the pain nor hunger now—that is, I would rather 
feel them than have you go away. Do not leave 
me again! " And he clung to her more closely than 
ever. 

She did not ask him any questions just then, but 
with gentle persuasion she overcame his fears, and 
soon she had him wrapped in warm, dry clothing, 
and placed before him a tea-tray with such nice 
things upon it as folks prepare for invalids. At first 
he only watched her moving around him, and re- 
4, peated softly to himself, over and over again, “ How 
glad I am that I have such a dear, sweet mother!" 
But he couldn’t help saying, as the warmth came 
back to him, “ How pleasant it is to have warm 
clothes! " and as he began to enjoy his food, “ I 
never thought eating was such a blessing before! " 
When he was quite comfortable, he said, “ Now, 
mother, let me tell you all about it." 

His mother replied with a smile, “ I think I 
know pretty well already. You dropped asleep here 
on your chair, and the storm came in at the win¬ 
dow, and wet you through and through, and you 
fell upon the floor, and had bad dreams!" And 
with that she began to stir up the fire, and make 
it burn again. 

But Felix told her the whole story; and as he 
told it, the moral of it came into his mind all at 


A Rainy Day Story . 


225 


once. He looked eagerly upon the table and into 
the fire, saying: “ Where is Mr. Cheerfulgratitude ? 
Oh! I wish he would come back now, and take 
possession of me! I see what it was all about; 
but I will never be so wicked again. Those vulgar, 
discontented Ideas shall not stay with me! ” 

Just then a white spark shot from the fire, and 
Felix shouted, “ There he comes, white-hot! ” But, 
no; it was nothing but an ordinary spark; and, 
strange to say, Felix never saw that Mr. Cheerful- 
gratitude again, though he often sat in front of the 
fire and watched for him. What do you suppose 
was the. reason? I’ll tell you what / think; for 
certainly I don’t believe that nonsense about its 
being all a dream. I think that Mr. Cheerfulgrati¬ 
tude had really got possession of him, and dwelt 
in him; and people cannot see what is inside of 
them, can they? How absurd! Of course not. 


Poverty Peter. 


ERTAINLY nobody in all the great city 
was more lonesome, and desolate, and 
helpless than Poverty Peter. I will not 
say that nobody was more unhappy, 
for there were so many unhappy peo¬ 
ple in the city, and there are so many 
kinds of unhappiness, that it would be 
hard to decide among them. Some 
folks are furiously miserable. They are full of jeal¬ 
ousy, and hate, and envy. They try to do harm, and 
the evil they intend for others comes back upon 
themselves—their own passions torment them. So no 
wonder they suffer. Some folks are made wretched 
by remorse. They have done wicked things which 
cannot be undone. All their tears will not quite 
wash the stains from their souls, and give them pure 
and happy memories. Some folks, again, are un¬ 
happy because they have to work too hard, and it 
takes all the strength, and hope, and comfort out 
of their lives; while others are unhappy because they 
have nothing to do. This makes them selfish apd 

226 





A Story of the Streets . 


227 


discontented. A little starvation, just to wake them 
up and make them pay attention to life, would be 
good for such people; but too much starvation is 
not good for anybody. 

Now, Poverty Peter was unhappy without know¬ 
ing it, and I think that is, in some respects, the 

worst kind of all. For these different kinds of un¬ 

happiness are like different diseases. Most of them 
are painful, and people are warned by the pain to 

try to be cured of them. But a disease that doesn’t 
give any pain at all is a dreadful thing. When the 
sick man tells the doctor that he doesn’t suffer a 
bit, the doctor shakes his head. That is a bad sign. 
He is afraid the man will die. 

Poverty Peter got his name from the newsboys. 
They called him so because he hadn’t any respecta¬ 
ble name of his own, and that one fitted him per¬ 
fectly. Not that they thought it any disgrace to 

be poor. Bless you, every mother’s son of them 

was poor when he began, though some of them, 

having been in business several years, had money in 
the bank. But even these looked, as ragged as 

Peter. They did not^ follow the fashions (except at 
the distance of half a generation), and they did not 
judge one another by outward , appearances. But 
they noticed that Peter had no ambition, no hope, 
no wish to better his condition. He didn’t work; 
he didn’t play; he managed to live, no one knew 


228 


Poverty Peter: 


how; and he seemed to care as little about life as 
if he were an oyster at the bottom of the East 
River. So the leader of the newsboys—they called 
him Barefoot Bill when he went into the trade, but 
he thrashed that out of them after he had earned 
his first pair of shoes, and now his name was Cap¬ 
tain Williams—said of Peter, “ Poverty Peter he is, 
and will be. It’s in him, and you can’t get it out 
of him! ” Peter did not mind this treatment. 
When he was hungry, he wanted to eat; when he 
was cold, he wanted to get warm. That was his 
notion of life. He saw thousands of people every 
day who were busy, and good-natured, and comfort¬ 
able ; but he looked upon them without envy and 
without ambition, as a rock might look up at a bird 
flying over it. They belonged to a different world 
from his. 

One winter Sunday he was loafing along the street, 
and he came to a church. The door was open, and 
out of it came the deep tones of the organ—that 
sort of organ-sound, you know, in which something 
below all seems to shake and tremble sweetly, till 
the whole world trembles with it; while on the sur¬ 
face of the music all the time beautiful melodies 
float about like yachts upon a billowy sea. Some¬ 
thing urged Peter to go in, but he hesitated. It 
was not because he was dirty and ragged that he 
paused; he had no special shame about that as yet, 


A Story of the Streets . 


229 


but he was lazy and indifferent. While he lingered, 
however, the people were going by him into the 
church, and presently there passed a little girl, oh! 
so beautiful! It made even Peter catch his breath 
to look at her. 

No, she didn’t have golden hair and blue eyes. 
You think all the little girls in stories are blondes; 
but this one had brown hair—a little tinged with 
red, if anything—and her eyes were brown too. But 
her beauty did not depend on these things alone. 
I think two things had more to do with it. She 
looked so happy, and she looked so kind. And what 
should she do but let go of her father’s hand, walk 
straight up to Peter, and, after looking at him with 
her earnest eyes for a moment, put into his hand 
a card with a pretty picture on it. Then she swiftly 
ran to overtake her father, and disappeared in the 
church. 

Peter looked at the card with curiosity and amaze¬ 
ment. The picture represented a fair and gracious 
woman giving presents to a Crowd of wretched, 
shabby people; under it was the word CHARITY, in 
large letters, and under that again a text from the 
Bible. But he could not read, and so the meaning 
was lost upon him. In fact, he thought it was a 
ticket to some exhibition in the church, and it struck 
him that perhaps there would be presents given 
away. There were people who gave presents and 


230 


Poverty Peter : 


other people who got them. But even this thought 
did not move him to enter. What moved him was 
just a look of pity thrown back upon him by the 
little girl before she disappeared. He started for¬ 
ward, hardly knowing why he did so. He had only 
a vague desire to catch one more such glance. You 
may think it strange that pity should be welcome 
to him. Indeed, the ordinary kind of pity was not 
at all to his taste. He had been pitied that way 
often enough, and it made him feel as I suppose 
the animals in the menagerie feel when you poke 
them with a parasol. But this was an extraordinary 
kind; it was pity without any contempt. Few peo¬ 
ple feel it, and even these do not often have the 
art to show it so that it cannot be misunder¬ 
stood. 

So on rushed Poverty Peter, and found himself 
in the church before he had time to consider. The 
little girl was just entering a pew far up the 
aisle. He did not dare to follow further; his sud¬ 
den impulse died away, and he was about to slink 
out into the street again, when the cushioned seat 
in the empty rear pew attracted his attention. Sit¬ 
ting down was just in his line, and it was his habit 
to take advantage of soft places when they presented 
themselves, wdiich was not often, in his desolate life. 
So now he sidled into the pew, thinking, u I’ll stay 
here while they’ll let me. Most likely a policeman 


A Story of the Streets. 231 

will come along pretty soon, and tell me to ‘ move 
out o’ this.’ ” 

But nobody disturbed him, and he began to feel 
quite at home. He could just see the little girl’s 
head in the distance, and he longed for her to come 
out again. The music pleased him, and the prayer 
puzzled him; but the sermon—well, for a wonder, 
the sermon was just suited to Poverty Peter’s case. 
I suppose he might have dropped into church a 
hundred times without hearing anything which fitted 
his condition so well. It was about giving and re¬ 
ceiving; and after talking plainly to rich people con¬ 
cerning the duty and the reward of charity, the 
minister went on somewhat in this style: 

“ But, my friends, if it is indeed more blessed 
to give than to receive, how shall the poor obtain 
this greater blessing? Ah! the promise is just as 
true for them as for the rich. Even the poorest 
can give, and he will not be happy until he does. 
Give, and not take, or at least do not take with¬ 
out giving, no matter how poor you are. It may 
be right for you to let others help you, but it is 
certainly right and necessary that you also help 
others. 

“ Now, I don’t mean that you should necessarily 
hunt out people that are lower down than you. 
You can find chances to serve those that are above 
you. If you are a clerk, do your employer a favor; 


232 Poverty Peter: 

if you are a laborer in the street, behave like a 
gentleman to those who pass you in the street. Do 
not scorn, nor envy, nor neglect the people who 
seem to be better off than you are. Show them 
free and friendly favor, and you will find that it is 
more blessed to give than to receive. Even God, in 
whose presence we are weak as cripples and poor 
as beggars, who is always giving and giving, permits 
us to offer our loving gifts to him. And serving 
him without selfishness or hope of reward, we shall 
be paid by the privilege of the service itself. 

“ O disheartened, indifferent, unhappy men ! Do 
you not know the secret of pleasure ? Arise, and 
do something for other men ! Do not any longer 
be content to receive and receive—and give nothing. 
Whatever you have, money or strength or good-will, 
give, and give freely and perpetually, and you shall 
be blest.” 

Peter listened with strange interest, feeling that 
this was meant for him, and understanding enough 
of it to be deeply moved. He was so absorbed 
that when the minister said “ Arise ! ” he stood right 
up in the pew; but immediately he sat down again, 
muttering, “ No; that an’t it! Oh! dear, what 
is it ? ” 

The closing hymn began, but Peter was so full 
of the riddle in his mind that the music only 
troubled him; and he quietly stole out of church, 


A Story of the Streets. 


2 33 


and stood again on the steps, feeling somehow that 
he had been greatly changed since he stood there 
an hour before. He kept saying to himself, “ Arise, 
and do somebody a favor! It is more blessed to 
give than to receive.” 

The carriages of the rich people were gathering 
before the church, and waiting for the service to be 
over. The sun shone brightly but coldly on the 
icy street ; and Poverty Peter looked around, in a 
vague way, half hoping that somebody would appear, 
some splendid person, gleaming in the sun, to whom 
he could render a favor. Then he thought of the 
lovely little girl in the church. If he could only do 
something for her! He looked down at the card 
she had given him. He had crumpled it up in his 
hand, and forgotten all about it. Now he smoothed 
it out with reverent care, and after trying all his 
pockets, and finding a hole as big as his fist in every 
one of them—in fact, you might say no bottom at 
all in any of them—he put it in his cap, and stop¬ 
ped the principal hole in that with his head. 

Then the people began to come out of church, 
and Peter forgot his perplexities for a moment ’in 
watching for the appearance of the little girl. At 
last she came and stood on the uppermost step, like 
a beautiful bird just ready to fly. She saw Peter, 
too, and turned towards him with the loveliest smile; 
but, alas! at that very instant her foot slipped, and 


234 


Poverty Peter: 


before any one could catch her, she fell down the 
steps and across the icy sidewalk, and right before 
a pair of prancing horses which were just coming 
up to the front of the church. People shrieked, and 
cried, “Look out!” and “O the child!” but no¬ 
body did anything, except Peter. His eyes were 
upon her when she fell; he made but one jump 
from where he stood to where she lay; and in a 
second he had snatched her unhurt from before the 
horses’ hoofs, and carried her in his arms to the 
sidewalk. There she was received by a sympathiz¬ 
ing crowd of ladies. One said, “ Poor dear! don’t 
try to stand up; let me hold you ! ” One said, 
“ What a mercy she wasn’t killed—that sky-blue sash 
is spoilt! ” Nobody noticed Peter at first; but the 
little girl broke away from them all, and called out to 
her father, who was but just hurrying out of church, 
and had not seen the accident, but had heard the 
outcry, “ I am not hurt at all, papa, and he pulled 
me out! ” 

Poverty Peter stood a little apart, still gazing on 
the little girl, and so proud, so proud, to think that 
he had done something for somebody, and such a 
something for such a somebody! The gentleman 
turned toward him eagerly to express his gratitude 
for the salvation of his daughter; but when he saw 
only a slouching, ragged boy, he seemed to think 
that fine words would be wasted on him unless 


A Story of the Streets. 


235 


something more substantial went with them; so he 
put his hand in his pocket and took out a bank¬ 
note, with which he approached Peter. But Peter, 
observing for the first time what the gentleman in¬ 
tended, felt suddenly insulted. I don’t think he had 
ever felt insulted before, and he was not very angry 
now; but it seemed a kind of disappointment. He 
was so happy, and he didn’t want to be paid. He 
drew himself up, not knowing exactly what to say, 
and involuntarily he said the very best thing in 
the world for that occasion—the sentence that was 
running in his head—“ It is more blessed to give 
than to receive.” 

The gentleman started, looked at him again, put 
the money back in his pocket, and said with a 
smile, “ My boy, you have remembered the sermon 
better than I. I will not offer to pay you, but 
you have done me the greatest service that any 
man could do, and I thank you with all my heart. 
Will you favor me by coming to-morrow morning to 
my office? It is in that building yonder with a 
marble front.” 

Poverty Peter was so embarrassed with shame and 
joy together that he could not speak a word. He 
dashed across the street, ran into an alley, and stood 
on his hands in the snow a full minute, flourishing 
his legs in the air to express his happiness. When 
he resumed that position which people, for reasons 


2 3 6 


Poverty Peter: 


of convenience, usually occupy—namely, right side 
up—he saw, lying in the snow, the card which he 
had put in his cap. You see, the lid of that cap 

was loose. It was not a suitable cap to be used 

as a pocket by a young man with his heels in the 

air; and so out came the card. Peter looked at it 

with new curiosity and gushing gratitude. Then, 
taking a sudden resolution, back he ran to the 
church, and found everybody gone except the sex¬ 
ton, who was shutting up the doors, and the min¬ 
ister, who was coming down the steps. The minis¬ 
ter noticed his look of disappointment, and said, 
“ What is it that you want ? ” 

“ I want to know what this is,” said Poverty 
Peter. 

“That?” said the minister; “that’s a card, with 
a picture of Charity on it, and some words from the 
Bible under the picture.” 

“ What does it say ? ” enquired Peter. 

“ It says, ‘ It is more blessed to give than to 
receive,’ ” replied the minister. 

“ That’s so f ” said Peter, with such startling em¬ 
phasis that the minister looked at him curiously. 
He was too much interested, however, to mind being 
looked at. “ That’s so,” he repeated; “ and if that’s 
in the Bible, I’ll bet on the Bible every time! 
Look here, you said it in there; and I came out. 
and found it so, the first thing. But I guess I’ve 


A Story of the Streets . 


23 7 


got to the end of my giving. Don’t see any more 
chances to pick pretty girls out of the streets— 
wasn't she lovely, though! ” 

The minister had heard of the rescue, and un¬ 
derstood not only what Peter was talking about, but 
how he felt; and when Peter added, with some hesi¬ 
tation, “You don’t know of anything I could do 
for you , do you ? ” he replied, very politely, “ ^es, 
my boy, if you will be good enough to walk a little 
way with me, and carry this umbrella, I shall be 
much obliged to you.” O that sly minister! He 
only wanted to encourage the boy’s self-respect and 
manliness, and get a chance to talk with him. 

As they walked along, Peter told him that the 
little girl’s father had asked him to come next morn¬ 
ing to his office. Then, for the first time, he be¬ 
gan to feel ashamed of his clothes. The thought 
that he would have to go in rags, or not at all, 
made him quite melancholy; but he gradually forgot 
that as the minister went on talking. I wish every¬ 
body understood boys as that minister did. I really 
believe he had once been a boy himself, though he 
never took any pains to say so. But he entered 
into Peter’s new idea with the greatest enthusiasm, 
and talked to him, as Peter said afterwards, “just 
like—just like—well, just like any fellow, only ever 
so much better ! ” 

“ Now,” said he, “ you’ve got just the right plan. 


238 


Poverty Peter: 


Only go through life on that track, and you will be 
all right. Always give; always . grant favors to other 
people. But you must get the right notion of real 
service and kindness to others. For instance, if this 
gentleman proposes to you to-morrow to take a place 
in his office and earn wages, you needn't feel as 
though it would be against your new plan to be 
paid for what you do. There are a great many 
reasons why people should be paid, instead of run¬ 
ning about and working for each other just for fun 
or favor. You will understand that when you are 
older. Only, remember that you are doing your 
employer a favor when you provide him with a 
faithful, active, honest servant ; and you are doing 
this whole city a favor when you make yourself a 
quiet, intelligent, respectable citizen; and what a 
pleasure you could give to God and his angels, if 
you would accept divine help, and grow up a brave, 
pure, earnest Christian ! ” 

Now, Peter did not know what that meant; and, 
what was curious, the minister knew that he did 
not know, but said it just to set him thinking. 
And when Peter said, “ I wish you’d tell us more 
about that,” this odd minister actually refused. 

“ Next time,” said he; “ you’ve got enough to 
think of now. But come and see me soon, and I 
will tell you more.” 

You see he perceived that Peter had got a good 


A Story of the Streets . 


239 


strong idea, for almost the first time in his life; and 
he was afraid of covering it up and smothering it 
with too many explanations. So at the gate of the 
parsonage they parted. 

Next morning Peter was out in the streets early. 
He could not go to the gentleman’s office yet for 
several hours; but expectation made him restless. 
As he strolled along the sidewalk, who should meet 
him but Captain Williams, the leader of the news¬ 
boys, spoken of at the beginning of this story, who 
was called Barefoot Bill when he began, but was 
now a highly respectable newsboy, with money in 
the bank. 

“ ’Ere’s yer mornin’—” he was going to say 
Herald; but he caught sight of Peter, and stopped 
short. “Hi!” said he, “if ’ere an’t Poverty Peter! 
Now that beats me! I say, my sweet summer sky¬ 
lark, what h’isted you from yer nice, warm bed on 
a brown-stone doorstep so airly in the mornin’? 
Does yer—” He was going to ask if Peter’s 
mother knew he was out; but he remembered that 
Peter had no mother, and he thought of his own, 
a dear, patient, blind woman, whom he supported 
with his earnings. So he pitied Peter, and was 
silent; for Captain Williams was a gentleman. That 
Peter also knew; and was very glad of a chance to 
tell such a sensible, smart, and good-natured fellow 
the whole of his adventures. The leader of the 


240 


Poverty Peter : 


newsboys listened attentively, only interrupting with 
occasional exclamations of “ My eye ! ” “ Bully for 

you ! ” and the like, and once or twice darting off 
to sell a paper to some early traveller bound for 
the ferry. But each time he returned, and said, 
with a comical gesture, “ ^sume, Mr. Speaker.” 

When Peter had finished, Captain Williams drew 
a long breath, and remarked, “ I’d like to see that 
girl, and I tell you I’d like to see that parson. 
He’s a trump, he is; and next Sunday I’ll get all 
the boys, and we’ll procesh up to his house, and 
we’ll just call on him. You’re in luck, Poverty 
Peter—if you only had good clothes.” ^ 

“ I know my clothes are not fit to be seen,” 
said Peter mournfully; “ but I—I wish you wouldn’t 

call me that name any more, Cap.” 

“ No more I won’t,” said the Captain promptly. 
“ Dandy Peter, Prince Peter, Saltpetre; no, Saint 
Peter—that’s the ticket! Now I’ve got an idea; 
just you hold on a minute and let her work. I say, 
do you see that bald old gent with specs opening 
his front door over there, and a moonin’ up and 
down the street? Well, there comes Jim Joggles, 
lickiticut, two blocks, to sell that old gent his morn- 
in’ paper. Jim thinks I an’t a-lookin’. I’ll teach 
him a lesson not to steal my customers. Go it, 
Peter; here’s yer Herald; now sell it to that bald 
party, and fetch me the money! ” 


A Story of the Streets . 


241 


Peter was off like a shot, dashed across the street, 
stumbled breathless up the steps, and sold his Herald 
in triumph, while Jim Joggles, seeing from afar tha.t 
the Captain was wide-awake, stopped suddenly and 
looked down a cross street with great earnestness, 
as if he had been running only to get to a place 
where he could enjoy that view. In a moment more 

Peter was back with the money, which Captain Wil¬ 

liams received, slapped him on the back, and said, 
“Well done, my lively saint. You’ve sold a paper. 
Yer one of us; yer a newsboy! If any feller says 

you an’t, refer him to me. I’d like to interview 

him, I would. Now, you see, Peter, I can’t allow 
you to 'go into that there nabob’s office, and bring 
disgrace on the newsboys with them clothes. You 
just come along with me. You’re going to be a 
committee, that’s what you are—a committee from 
the newsboys to the parent of that Be-e-autiful 
Chee-ild; and you must go in uniform. Now, I’ve 
got a friend over in Chatham Street who can dress 
a gentleman in no time. No trouble about his goods 
fittin’. Every one on ’em has been tried afore! ” 
Thus he rattled on; but Peter saw clearly that 
the generous fellow meant to advance the money to 
buy a suit of second-hand clothes for him; and his 
new-born independence made him disinclined, though 
he wanted clothes so badly, to accept them as a 
gift. But when he intimated this, Captain Williams 


242 


Poverty Peter: 


turned sharply on him and said: “You mean, aris¬ 
tocratic, selfish cuss! Do you want to have all the 
fun of doing favors yourself, and not let another 
fellow have any chance ? ” Then Peter relented, and 
they shook hands on it, and away they went to¬ 
gether to the Chatham Street gentleman. They 
found him just taking the spots out of a suit of 
dark cloth. It was almost new; but the former 
owner had spilt lemonade all over it, and stained it 
so that he was glad to sell it for a song. The 
science of the Chatham Street gentleman, however, 
was more than a match for lemonade; and his skill 
restored the damaged suit to almost its original glory. 
He got his reward sooner than gentlemen of his pro- 
* fession usually do, for the goods were bought by 

Captain Williams and put upon Peter in five min¬ 
utes after he had finished his scrubbing of them. 
When Peter came out of the shop, nobody would 
have recognized him. “Hooray!” said Captain Wil¬ 
liams ; “ now, my boy, go in and win.” 

Poverty Peter was Poverty Peter no longer. In 
three hours more he had been engaged as a. mes¬ 
senger* to the bank of which the little girl’s father 

was president; and from that time his life was ut¬ 
terly changed. Of course he was far from being 

Saint Peter; he was ignorant and weak still, but his 
aim was right and his resolution was earnest. The 
minister turned out to be his best friend, and got 


A Story of the Streets . 


243 


him, with Captain Williams and all the boys, into 
the eyening-school and the Sunday-school, where 
the newsboys made a large and lively class all by 
themselves. 

Peter rose in life from one position to another, 
fulfilling faithfully the duties of each ; and what with 
good habits and education and kindness of heart, all 
showing themselves in his face, he turned out to be 
a right handsome young man. And so it came to 
pass that after some years there was a wedding, at 
which the minister officiated, white-haired now, but 
as much of a boy as ever; and Captain Williams, 
now Josiah Williams, Esq., the proprietor of a large 
bookstore, was groomsman, and wore a splendid 
broadcloth suit, with a claw-hammer coat-tail and a 
white vest, which did not come from Chatham Street. 
And who was the lovely being, all dressed in lace 
and muslin, who stood on that occasion by Peter’s 
side? If I should put this question now, and ask each 
of you girls who knew the answer to hold up her ha^id 
—all your hands—that is to say, half your hands, or 
one hand apiece—would go up -at once, and I should 
hear a sweet chorus, “ It was the little girl whose 
life he had saved.” O you dear creatures! how 
penetrating you are! Only it wasn’t that girl at all, 
but another girl. You see you forgot that this isn’t 
a Sunday-school book story or a novel, but an or¬ 
dinary piece of real life. If you ask me why the 


244 


Poverty Peter. 


little girl did not fall in love with her preserver, I 
cannot tell you. I am quite unable to say why 
girls do fall in love, and I certainly shall not un¬ 
dertake to explain why they don’t. All I know is 
that she found a young gentleman who pleased her 
better. Perhaps he had fished her out of the water 
when she broke through the thin ice, skating; or, 
perhaps, he had merely escorted her to singing-school, 
and never saved her life at all. At any rate, she 
had one good reason for not preferring Peter, namely, 
that Peter did not prefer her. They were excellent 
friends ; but the tenderest and most romantic inter¬ 
view they ever had was when Peter told her all 
about the other young lady, and she told him about 
the other young gentleman, and they both said, 
“ How nice ! ” 

And now I have come to the moral of my story. 
All you little boys and girls, wake up from your 
little naps and hold up your little- heads, and give 
me your attention. The beauty of this moral is 
that you will find it to every story, if you look 
long enough, and it is the more welcome and the 
more certain to be appreciated, the more tedious the 
story. For the moral I mean is— THE END. 


The palace of the Days. 


ITTLE Philip went to. bed early, the 
night before Christmas, because he 
was so tired of waiting. As he 
lay in his trundle-bed, he thought 
how the mornings come first in 
the east, and move with the sun 
over land and sea, while the nights 
follow after, but never can catch 
them. “ I guess Christmas has come 
already to some of the little children across the 
sea,” thought Philip to himself, “ and he is hurry¬ 
ing this way as fast as he can. I hope he will not 
be tired and stop before he gets to me!” Mean¬ 
while Philip grew sleepier and sleepier, and at 
last his bright little eyes shut so quickly that 
you could almost hear them snap. 

Then the door softly opened, and in came a 
queer little fellow with wings. Did you ever see a 
Dream? Nobody ever did, to my knowledge. They 
are cunning chaps, and they never come near you 
until you are too fast asleep to see them. Day- 



245 




246 


The Palace of the Days : 


dreams belong to a different family, and are not 
good for much. The most curious thing about real, 
useful dreams is that they visit everybody, and carry 
people everywhere, and show them all sorts of pic¬ 
tures, and tell them all sorts of stories; and when 
they are gone, people wake up and rub their eyes, 
and find themselves just where they were when they 
fell asleep, and won’t believe they have been any¬ 
where or seen anything. This Dream that I speak 
of stole across the room, and held one hand over 
Philip’s eyes to keep them shut, while he whispered 
in his ear: “ Come! let us go to the Great House 
where the Days live! ” With that he lifted Philip 
out of bed, and away they floated through the 
window, and over the hills, and the rivers, and the 
great sea, higher and higher, until they came into 
the clouds; and right in the middle of Cloudland 
they came to the Palace of Days. 

That was a splendid hall! It was so large that 
you could scarcely see from one end to the other; 
and there were three hundred and sixty-six beds in 
it, and tables and chairs in proportion, one for 
every day in the year. This is where the Days 
lived, when they were not at work on the world. 
Every Day took his turn once a year, and gene¬ 
rally got so tired walking round the world, that he 
went straight to bed as soon as he got back, and 
slept till his turn came again. “ Great sleepers, I 




THE TWENTY.NINTH OF FEBRUARY. 

" So the queer old mart sat down, and took one leg on the other knee , in a com - 
fortable way, while the Dream took his place on the floor, and listened over 
his shoulder —Page 247. 











































































































































































































































































































A Dream Story . 247 

tell you! ” said the Dream to Philip, “ but they 
don’t sleep very soundly. What they call History 
down there in the world is nothing but the echo of 
these old fellows, snoring and muttering in their sleep.” 

Sure enough, there were most of the Days in bed, 
with their names above their heads. There wa£ the 
First of April, with a fool’s cap for a nightcap," and 
the Fourth of July, with a star-spangled banner for I119 
bed-quilt; and there was the Twenty-third of Decem¬ 
ber, a short, little fat fellow—the shortest day in the 
year. He had only just got home, had his supper, 
and gone to bed. The next bed was empty; for the 
Twenty-fourth of December was out on his travels. 
One lively fellow came up to Philip, and said : “ I’m 
the Twenty-ninth of February! I march only once 
in four years, so you see I’m quite fresh. I have 
nothing to do till 1872. If you want to ask ques¬ 
tions, I’m your man! ” So the queer old man sat 
down, and took one leg on the other knee, in a 
comfortable way, while the Dream took his place on 
the floor, and listened over his shoulder. Then Philip 
asked what the Days did while they travelled round 
the world. “Why, don’t you know?” said the 
Twenty-ninth of February. “We walk by the side 
of the Sun; and while he holds his great lantern 
to light the world, we scatter the gifts of the King 
in all countries, and remember everything that we 
see to tell it to the Recorder. There he sits.” 


248 The Palace of the Days : 

Then Philip looked, and saw a man sitting behind 
a great book, and writing all the time. Everything 
that ever happened was written in that great Book 
of the King, and the Recorder neither rested nor 
grew weary. Indeed, he could not pause, for things 
kept happening all the time. 

Presently a messenger with a torch ran swiftly 
through the hall, and, stopping by one of the beds, 
touched the Day who was sleeping there. 

“That rs the Morning Star/’ said the Twenty- 
ninth of February. “ It is his business to wake the 
Days. He is come for Christmas now. The Twenty- 
fourth—Christmas Eve, we nickname him—will be in 
presently, and one goes as the other comes; else 
something might happen that we did not see.” 

Christmas, a cheerful old man with a long white 
beard, made haste to rise and get ready for his 
journey. He nodded kindly to Philip, and put out 
his hand, saying: “Would you like to go with me? 
A long road, but pleasant. Nobody has so pleasant 
a road as I have! ” 

Philip loved him at once; so bidding farewell to 
his new acquaintance, and casting one look at the 
solemn Recorder, who was just beginning a new page, 
he took the old man’s hand, and they went out of 
the palace together. At the threshold they met 
another old man coming in. “Ah! brother Christ¬ 
mas,” said he, “ I have left fine weather for you! 


A Dream Story. 


249 


The world is getting old and dirty; but I carried 
along a bag full of snow, and whitened it wherever 
I could! ” And with that he hurried in to tell his 
story to the Recorder, and then to sleep for an¬ 
other year. 

A moment more, and they met the Sun. He 
was not tired. The Sun and the Recorder never are 
tired. What a glorious face he had ! And the light 
in his hand was so brilliant that it shone for mil¬ 
lions of miles. 

They began their journey far away in the east, 
where all the people bowed down and worshipped 
the Sun, but paid no attention to Christmas. “ That 
is because they do not know me yet,” said the old 
man. “ When they know me, they will welcome us 
both as friends, but worship the King only. Every 
time I travel through this part of the world I look 
to see if any one has taught them better. I could 
tell them a story, if I had time, that would open 
their eyes to the truth, and make them happy and 
wise. But my business is only to see what happens, 
and tell the Recorder. Some time or other I shall 
have it to tell that all men know me, and worship 
the King. That will be the best news! The 
Recorder will stop writing for very joy; but not 
until then.” 

As they came westward with the Sun, they heard 
everywhere the sound of chiming bells; and crowds 


250 


The Palace of the Days : 


of people were seen, greeting each other merrily 
and with good wishes, and gathering to give thanks 
to the King. The face of Christmas brightened, and 
the Sun made his light as clear as it could be. 
“ These are all friends of mine,” said Christmas, 
“ and they worship the King. Every time I come 
I find more and more of them. It was not always 
so—for thousands of years I was not Christmas at 
all. The time when I got my name was the hap¬ 
piest time of my life; and the story that I told 
the Recorder then is written on the most beautiful 
page of his book, and the King reads it very often. 
That was the time when the Prince Emanuel came 
down into the world with me. Ever since then I 
have been Merry Christmas. Do you not think 
I have good reason to be glad that I, of all the 
Days in the Palace, should bring the Prince into 
the world, and hear the angels sing peace on earth 
and good-will to men ? ” 

While they were thus talking they passed swiftly 
over many lands, and everywhere the people wel¬ 
comed them with great joy. The merry smiles of 
Christmas were reflected in all faces. The chiming 
of the bells, and the shouts and laughter of the 
children, and the greetings of neighbors and friends, 
and happy thanksgivings to the King, filled the air 
with music. Everywhere the temples and houses 
were wreathed with green boughs and crosses, and 


A Dream Story. 


251 


stars of green were set up to remind men of the 
Prince Emanuel and the bright morning star that 

shone over Bethlehem. Old Christmas grew merrier 
and merrier. He laughed and sang, and scattered 
gifts among the people; and they, in their glad¬ 
ness, gave to one another and to the poor; but 
sweeter than the loudest glee was the tone in 
which the old man everywhere said : “ Remember 
the Prince and the King and the Glad Tidings.” 
Then they crossed the great sea; and Christmas 
went on board of every ship they met to bless the 
sailors and to say: “ Remember who made the 

storm to cease. The Prince was once a sailor too! ” 
At last they reached the shores of the new 

land in the West. It was covered with snow, so 
pure and white that it looked like the new page 
on which the Recorder will one day write that all 
men know and serve the King. Presently Philip 
saw the house where he lived; and before he could 
bid Christmas good-by, that mischievous little¬ 
winged Dream, which had been with him invisibly 
all the time, lifted him lightly, and flew with him 
right through the window into his own room. And, 

lo! his mother stood by him, saying: “Wake up, 

little boy! Christmas is here.” 

“ O ho ! ” said Philip, “ I guess I know that / 
I have been round the world with him! ” 

Whether he really had been journeying or not, 


252 


The Palace of the Days . 


I should like to see the philosopher who could tell. 
But one thing I know: that I mean to do all I 
can to spread the Glad Tidings, so that very soon 
Father Christmas, in his travels round the world, 
shall find that all men know him and worship the 
King; when the Recorder shall cease writing for 
very joy; and the mirth, and love, and charity of 
Christmas shall fill also every day in the whole year. 


“X.”—A Christmas Story. 


I. 


GARRET LODGINGS. 

WAS a very useful as well as a tol¬ 
erably ornamental member of soci¬ 
ety. Perhaps I should rather say 
he had been ornamental when he 
was young; for it cannot be denied 
that as he grew old, he grew rag¬ 
ged and dirty. But this I will 
stoutly maintain, that his age and 
his grimy face made no difference to people who 
knew his real worth. All except the extremely fas¬ 
tidious and foolish valued him as highly as ever, and 
were sincerely glad to take him by the hand. I 
mean their hands, not his; for X was a ten-dollar 
bill! Some days they thought more of him than 
usual, some days rather less ; that depended on their 
views about the value of gold^-a consideration which 
affects us more than it should, in our estimation of 

253 





254 


“ X”—A Christmas Story . 


our acquaintances. But he was always welcome, 
there is no doubt of that. 

X was a fellow of a roving sort. He never stayed 
long in one place, but was always changing his lodg- 
ings, going about, as he said, doing good. But he 
asked no praise for his benevolence. If you had seen 
him at work buying coal and clothing for the poor, 
or books and flowers for the rich, paying debts, 
giving employment to laborers, running in and out 
of banks on business, and had complimented him on 
his quiet but incessant and beneficent activity, he 
would have said, no doubt, “ Bless you, my dear 
fellow, I don’t deserve any thanks for that. It is 
my nature to do this sort of thing. That’s all I 
am good for. I can’t keep up my circulation with¬ 
out it. It’s my constitutional exercise. As for the 
generosity you seem to see in my behavior, I can’t 
claim that. It’s a mere lega.’ tenderness of charac¬ 
ter!’’ But if X had said all that to you, I war¬ 
rant you would not have thought any the less of 
him. You would have regarded him, as everybody 
did, in the light of a benefactor; and you would 
have declared, “ There may be persons of more ster¬ 
ling value, but they are not common. Give us 
plenty like X, and we will be content.” 

At the time my story commences, X had lodg¬ 
ings that he didn’t like. For an individual of his 
active habits to be cooped up in an old glove, the 


“ X. v —A Christmas Story . 


255 


glove being in the toe of a stocking, the stocking 
rolled up in a towel, and the towel tucked under a 
pile of nightgowns and flannel things in the left- 
hand back corner of the third trunk (counting from 
the step-ladder, and not including band-boxes, candle- 
boxes, or soap-boxes), in Mrs. Joshua Homebody’s 
attic, was anything but pleasant. To explain the 
previous history of X would involve a long story 
and not the one I mean to tell. Sufficient to say 
that Mrs. Joshua Homebody had invited him out of 
Mr. Homebody’s pocket after Mr. Homebody had 
been drawing his month’s salary; that she had 
marked him with ink in one corner, just under the 
head of Daniel Webster, so as to know him again 
if she lost him; that she had kept him about the 
house for a week or so, hiding him every night in 
a new place, and looking him up in the morning to 
make sure that he hadn’t run away with the cook. 
Finally she read some frightful story in the evening 
paper about the great demand for him and a mil¬ 
lion more like him to move the crops out West, 
and the great difficulty of finding them when they 
were wanted. When she asked Mr. Homebody 
about the matter, he said it was too true, everybody 
wanted ’em at any price; but women couldn’t un¬ 
derstand such things, and all she needed to know 
was that she mustn’t come round him looking for 
another X, for he hadn’t got any, and didn’t know 


256 


“X—A Christmas Story. 


where he could get any if the present state of things 
should continue; she had better hang on to what 
she had; there was going to be a panic, if she 
knew what that was; and anyhow, wouldn't she let 
him go to sleep ? Did she expect a man was go¬ 
ing to worry all day and talk about it all night ? 
The result of it was that Mrs. Homebody, being a 
prudent woman, arose in the morning, took X out 
of her slipper, where he had passed a chilly night, 
and buried him in the garret in the manner already 
described. Whether she understood finance or not, 
she behaved just like a financier in a panic. 

What was her precise object she did not know; 
in which point also she resembled the financiers in 
general. Perhaps if a reporter had interviewed her 
on the garret stairs, and had not been mistaken for 
a burglar—a danger to which enterprising reporters 
are frequently exposed—she would have said she had 
put X in the garret in order to have him handy in 
case of a rainy day. But no reporter asked her, 
and consequently she did not know. There are lots 
of things of which we are profoundly ignorant until 
we are asked; and then, rather than confess our ig¬ 
norance, we suddenly discover that we know all 
about them. 

No better illustration of this principle could be 
found, by the way, than little Miss Homebody, aged 
seven, and called Sophy when she was good, and 


“X.”—A Christmas Story. 


25 7 


Sophronia when she was naughty. She was always 
doing queer things ; and she never did anything that 
she could have explained beforehand, or anything 
that she couldn’t explain afterwards. But I have 
got ahead of my story. I am coming to little Miss 
Homebody as fast as I can, only I must be per¬ 
mitted first to repeat, lest it should be forgotten, 
that X was in the garret, and had been there for 
a fortnight, and a very dismal time he was having. 


11. 

SOPHRONIA HOMEBODY. 

That child was enough to puzzle Solomon and 
worry Job and drive Nebuchadnezzar crazy before 
his time! She had no brothers or sisters, and so 
she behaved, all by herself, like a large family. She 
made friends with the furniture, romped with um¬ 
brellas, went out riding with rocking-chairs, made 
calls on the wardrobes and closets, held long con¬ 
versations with the clothes, taught the flat-irons their 
A, B, C, and told fairy stories to the fire. You 
never knew what intimate friend she might have be¬ 
hind the door. To you it might appear as if only 
a broom stood there; but if you carelessly touched 
that apparent broom, you would perhaps be informed, 
with tears, that you had fatally injured a beautiful 
young lady afflicted with a dreadful spine, whose 


258 


'X”—A Christmas Story. 


doctor had said that she must stand perfectly still 
for a month, and not be touched on any account. 
Sophy was full of odd notions like that, which she 
invented herself, and which sometimes seemed to get 
badly mixed in her mind with the real facts around 
her. 

Aunt Sophronia, her father’s eldest sister, after 
whom she was named, was fond of her, and there¬ 
fore could not bear to blame her; but even Aunt 
Sophronia was sometimes severely tried. One day, 
while visiting at the house, the old lady asked her 
what she had been doing the day before, and Sophy 
told her she had ridden up Broadway on a coal- 
black horse with a diamond in one eye, just as fast 
as—as a fire-engine going to a fire; and a band of 
music, all on black horses, rode ahead, and when 
the horses were tired they all got off and walked, 
and they walked and they walked till they came to 
the end, and there was the sea-serpent eating pine¬ 
apples. 

“ Mercy on us, child! ” cried the astonished old 
lady, “ what will become of you if you tell such 
stories as that ? ” But Sophy insisted it was true, 
and offered to prove it ; so they went into the par¬ 
lor, which represented Broadway, and there were the 
mahogany chairs with black hair-cloth seats—real 
horse-hair, as Sophy said triumphantly. They were 
the horses; and away down at the end was a foot- 


“X.”—A Christmas Story . 


259 


stool, with a marvellous piece of worsted work on 
the top, wrought by Mrs. Joshua Homebody in her 
young days—and that was the sea-serpent eating pine¬ 
apples ! Aunt Sophronia put on her spectacles, took 
a good look at it, and said: “Well, my dear, if it 
isn’t that, I don’t know what it is, for my part. 
But you needn’t tell your mother I say so.” Then, 
entering a little more into the spirit of the thing, 
she added: “ I don’t see your band of music.” 

“ Ho! ” replied Sophy, as if she had been ex¬ 
pecting that very objection, “ you can’t see music! 
Of course not.” With that she tossed her curly 
head, and looked so knowing and so sure of her 
ground that Aunt Sophronia prudently retreated, and 
began on another point. 

“ But your horses haven’t got any diamonds in 
their eyes.” 

Miss Homebody was ready for her there. “ Show 
me their eyes,” quoth she briefly; and when that 
hopeless task was declined, of course her next piece 
of logic was a crusher. “ If you can’t find their 
eyes, how can you tell what they haven’t got in 
them ? ” The old lady feebly suggested that no 
horse that ever she saw had a diamond in his eye. 
“ Did you ever look to see ? ” said the unmerciful 
young person. “ I have, lots of times.” And then, 
not content with having got a decided victory on 
that line of argument, she clinched it, quite unne- 


26 o 


C ‘X”—A Christmas Story. 


cessarily, by adding: “ And besides, even if —why, 
your kind of horse is another kind altogether! ” 

I think that Aunt Sophronia herself was a little 
responsible for the odd fancies that crowded Sophy’s 
head; for she told her stories and gave her books, 
and sometimes helped her along in her imaginary 
adventures by pretending to be whatever the child 
wished. Only Sophy would never say beforehand, 
as most children would do, “ Now, you pretend to 
be Mrs. So-and-So, and I’ll be another lady come to 
make a call.” It would happen, probably, in some 
such way as this: Aunt Sophronia would call Sophy 
three or four times, without getting an answer; and 
at last Sophy would reply gravely: “ Mrs. Cunning¬ 
ham, what are you making such a noise about? 
Have you lost your litle girl ? ” 

“Yes; I’ve lost my little Sophy, and I want her 
to come and be dressed for a walk. Pray, may I 
ask your name ? ” her aunt would say. 

“ My name is Lady Gray,” she would answer 
gravely. “ I am astonished you don’t remember 
me; I was an old friend of your dear father’s, and 
I think I would like to take a walk with you, if 
you can’t find your little girl! ” 

But I cannot undertake to describe any more of 
Sophy’s ways and doings. Her mother used fre¬ 
quently to get out of all patience with her, for re¬ 
ally she carried the thing too far. It’s all very well 


“X."—A Christmas Story . 


261 


to play this and that, but when you get so that 
you don’t know your own name or the names of 
your friends, and really think the front stairs are 
Mount Popocatapetl, and the kitchen range is a 
volcano, it is too much for sensible people to bear. 
If Sophy had had other children to play with, she 
would have been cured of this habit, for she 
wouldn’t have had her own way in the make-believe 
world all the time, and so she would have come 
back oftener to the real one. You can’t turn chairs 
into horses if another magician insists on making 
camels of them. The result is that they have to 
take turns at being one thing and the other, and 
nobody can forget that at bottom they are chairs. 

Or if Sophy had been sent to a Kindergarten, 
she would have had opportunity to exercise her busy 
fancy in other ways; and she would have been 
taught to observe and study things, until she would 
have made the great discovery that the real world 
is more interesting than any imaginary one that can 
be invented to take its place. Her active little 
fingers would have had delicate and ingenious work 
to jo—work that would have seemed like play, but 
would have had more real variety, as well as more 
use, in it. 

Two things must be said about Sophy that I 
think could scarcely be said of most children as full 
of imagination as she was. She was afraid of no- 





262 “X.”—A Christmas Story . 

thing; and she never told lies to escape blame or 
punishment. If you wanted to know who had done 
some piece of mischief, and asked her about it, she 
was quite likely to reply in some odd way. Per¬ 
haps she would be at the time a stranger, travel¬ 
ling through the town; but in that case she would 
remark that she accidentally saw a little girl whose 
name she had understood was Sophy commit the 
mischief referred to, and she believed that little girl 
was very sorry. Or she would say it had been 
done by an intimate friend of hers, whose name 
she could not remember, but since it was her friend, 
it would be only fair to lay the blame upon her . 

Her fearlessness was quite remarkable for one so 
full of fancies. She would go into a dark room 
without the slightest hesitation, although she seemed 
to believe that it was full of living things—that the 
bed and the pictures could speak if they chose, and 
that invisible people were walking about on the car¬ 
pet. One reason for this was the fact that her 
aunt had never told her such vulgar and ridiculous 
ghost-stories or stories of cruelty and fear as many 
children hear from their nurses and relatives. But 
another reason was her quiet, childlike faith in the 
protection of God and his good angels. 


U X”—A Christmas Story. 


263 


hi. 

THE BOOKBINDER. 

On the same block as the house of the Home¬ 
body’s, Old Morocco kept house and bound books, 
all in two fourth-story rooms. The outer room had 
a half-illegible sign over the door, which he had 
bought at an auction sale one year when work was 
plenty. In its brilliant youth, the sign had said, 
Fashionable Binding Done Here, in Russia, 
Calf, or Morocco. Now it said nothing to speak 
of, except Morocco. You might study it a long 
time without making any more of it. So the lodg¬ 
ers on the lower floors fell into the habit of regard¬ 
ing it as a door-plate merely, and the bookbinder 
as “ Old Morocco.’’ Not that he was so very old 
—fifty, perhaps; but he wore spectacles, and stooped 
a little in walking, and his hair was thin. 

Times had gone rather hard with him. The thriv¬ 
ing business that he once did had received a fatal 
blow from the burning down of the building that 
contained his shop. Of course he had saved no¬ 
thing from the fire. Bookbinders are always up at 
the top of the house, and when there is a fire they 
are sure to have everything spoilt. What the flames 
don’t consume the water ruins. But that wasn’t 
the worst. The bookbinder’s wife caught a dread¬ 
ful cold and fever that night, and was sick a long 


264 


l X ”—A Christmas Story. 


time, so that his stock of money in the savings- 
bank all went to the doctor and the apothecary. 
Then the times grew harder, until there were hardly 
any books to be bound. People kept their pam¬ 
phlets, and said they couldn’t afford to have them 
bound just yet; or those who did order anything 
were very slow in paying for it. The boy that 
helped in the bindery had to be discharged ; and 
Old Morocco was left with his invalid wife and two 
children. They had lost their elder children years 
before; and these two were eight and ten years old 
—just big enough, as their father said, in his cheer¬ 
ful way, to be a great comfort. 

This remark was a good example of his habit 
of looking on the bright side of things. When the 
shop burned, he thought it was a mercy none of 
the children w r ere hurt; when his wife’s fever used 
up all their savings, he was thankful that she lived 
through it, and he didn’t mind any losses in com¬ 
parison with that great blessing; when work fell off, 
he said he was glad he had more time to attend 
to the family. He was always impre^lng upon Jane, 
ten years old, how fortunate it was that she was 
older than Willie, so that she could take care of 
him. If Willie had been the elder, it would have 
been fortunate that he could take care of Jane. 

Among his subjects for congratulation was the 
arrangement of the two rooms. It was so handy to 


“X”—A Christmas Story. 


265 


boil potatoes or Indian meal for breakfast on the 
little stove in the bindery, and, when they had been 
removed, to put on the paste, without loss of time 
or fuel. And the work-bench made such a capital 
bedstead for the children at night! In the daytime, 
if anybody came on business, the children could 
scuttle away in a hurry into the other room, and 
shut the door till the customer was gone ; and then 
the door could be opened again, and the children 
could come out, and their mother’s bed being pulled 
round, so that she could see through the door what 
was going on, it was really very sociable. 

Jane was getting so that she could stitch the 
book-sheets, as her mother used to do; and as for 
Willie, he could at least pass the paste, or climb 
on the press to “ help squeeze,” as he said. When 
the bookbinder lettered the backs of the books after 
they were bound, that was a delightful moment for 
the children ! Then they mounted on two stools, 
and looked over his two shoulders, holding their 
breath, lest they should blow the gold-leaf away. 
And when a volume was quite complete and ready 
for delivery, Jane would carry it very carefully into 
the other room, while Willie pranced around her 
like a whole troop of Arabs, crying, “ Look, mother, 
we did that ! ” And Old Morocco would look over 
his spectacles through the door, and nod, well pleased 
to hear his wife say: “That is as handsome a job 


266 


“X.”—A Christmas Story . 


as I ever saw. Give my regards to the bookbinder 
and tell him he’s a master-hand.” Back the young 
ones would go with the message; and Old Morocco 
would listen to it as gravely as if he had not over¬ 
heard a bit of it in advance, and would reply, 
“ Give my best respects to the lady, and say I 
shall be proud and happy to do another job for her 
on reasonable terms.” They managed, after all, to 
be right jolly at the bookbinder’s. 

On the day I am thinking of, Old Morocco had 
just finished a piece of work for Mrs. Joshua Home¬ 
body. It was nothing less than five volumes of the 
Christian Union , bound in elegant style, with the 
title on the back, and on the side of each the 
name of the owner. Two dollars a volume was 
very cheap for such work as that; and as he rolled 
down his shirt-sleeves and put, on his well-worn coat 
and hat to carry the heavy bundle home, he thought 
with a good deal of pleasure of the ten dollars he 
would receive, and the manner in which he would 
lay out the money. Some warm stockings and mit¬ 
tens for the children—yes, and he would put the 
mittens in the stockings, and so make a regular 
Christmas of it, for to-morrow was Christmas! Then 
two dollars must be laid aside for the rent, and two 
dollars for paper and leather, and two dollars toward 
the next ton of coal. Perhaps there would be 
enough left to warrant an oyster supper, say six 


U X”—A Christmas Story . 


267 


oysters for his wife, and two apiece for the rest, all 
round, with plenty of the soup for everybody. With 
his dear, frowsy old head full of these visions, he 
cheerfully bade the family good-by, and departed, 
humming his favorite hymn, “ When I can read my 
title clear.” Old Morocco professed to like that 
hymn, because it reminded him of his trade, as did 
also his other favorite, “ Blest be the tie that binds.” 


IV. 


SOPHY'S MISTAKE. 

Mrs. Joshua Homebody was down in the kitchen, 
making Christmas pies for the next day, when So¬ 
phy presented herself at the door. “ Mrs. Home¬ 
body,” said she, “ I am delighted to see you. I 
think of going up-town, where a good many of your 
friends live, to look about a little, and see what I 
would like to buy. Have you any objections, 
ma’am?” 

Mrs. Homebody intimated that she didn’t care 
much what became of her visitor, provided she kept 
out of the kitchen. So Sophy went up-town, which, 
as she understood the phrase, was up-garret; and 
there she visited one store—that is to say, one 
trunk—after another, looking over their contents with 
a great deal of curiosity, and talking to imaginary 



268 


“X.”—A Christmas Story. 


merchants as she did so, but finally returning every¬ 
thing to its place, with the remark that it was pretty 
hard times, and she guessed she wouldn’t buy— 
which was what she had heard her mother say on 
similar occasions. At last she came to the trunk 
in which X lay buried. He heard her coming, and 
longed to get out, but could not speak. Under or¬ 
dinary circumstances, greenbacks have nothing to 
say, except what you read on their face; and that’s 
not much in the dark. Even when the entire 
money market is “ tight,” greenbacks merely get 
“high,” and retire quietly to sleep it off. 

This was a favorite trunk of Sophy’s, because it 
had brass knobs outside, which she chose to con¬ 
sider gold, and because, moreover, the upper part 
contained a venerable silk shawl and a poke-bonnet 
of a very ancient pattern, belonging to Aunt So- 
phronia. And when once, in the character of Lady 
Gray, she had said to Aunt Sophronia (who was 
figuring for the time as the Duchess of East New 
York), “ Dear Duchess, if I should call at your gold 
palace some day, do you happen to have a bonnet 
and shawl that you could lend me for little Sophy 
Homebody? She hasn’t anything fit to be seen, 
except what’s locked up in the wardrobe for Sun¬ 
days,” the Duchess had replied, “ Certainly, my dear 
Lady Gray; there’s a shawl and bonnet and gloves 
that belonged to my Aunt Sophronia; only tell 


“X.”—A Christmas Story. 269 

your young friend to be very careful of them, and 
bring them back in good order.” 

On the present occasion, therefore, Sophy, after 
pretending to ring at one of the golden knobs, 
lifted the lid of the trunk, and said brightly, “ Good¬ 
morning ; I suppose the Duchess is out. It’s no 

matter; I will just step up into her room after a 

bundle.” Then she took out the shawl, and drew 

it over her shoulders, and pulled it back and for¬ 
ward two or three times, as ladies always do, to 
settle it right. When that was satisfactory, she ex¬ 
tinguished herself with the bonnet, which, once 
fairly on, permitted her to see in no direction, ex¬ 
cept straight ahead. This formidable bonnet, with 
a head away in the rear end of it, then plunged 
its front into the trunk again, and a voice was heard 
saying from the interior, “ Why, Eliza, where is the 
other glove ? The Duchess always had two gloves! ” 
For a few minutes there was a very energetic search, 
extending gradually into those down-stairs parts of 
the trunk with which the Duchess had nothing to 
do. The poke-bonnet rooted away, as if it had been 
a rhinoceros; but finally it emerged triumphant. 
“ There, Eliza! ” said Sophy, “ don’t let me ever 
catch you being so careless again. If I had not 
happened to call, that glove would have been lost, 
and you might have been put in prison, or sent to 
bed, or goodness knows.” 


2 70 “X”—A Christmas Story. 

With that she shut the lid of the golden palace, 
and went down-stairs, with the shawl trailing a yard 
behind her, and the bonnet scouting almost as far, 
one would have said, in advance. On the floor be¬ 
low she paused to put on her gloves, and lo! in 
the palm of the second glove she found X. Now, 
Sophy was by no means so ignorant as not to know 
that X was money. Philosophers might doubt it; 
nevertheless, she knew it. But her experience of 
money had been confined tQ pennies and nickle half¬ 
dimes and ten-cent notes; and she thought X was 
a ten-cent note, only larger and handsomer than 
usual. The discovery seemed quite providential to 
her. She had been dunning her mother that very 
morning for ten cents, fairly earned, according to 
agreement, by dressing her own self (all but the top 
button behind) for ten mornings, without once stop¬ 
ping to gossip with the furniture or the canary, or 
pretending that she was somebody else, or worrying 
people with questions. So she trailed, as fast as 
dignity would allow, down the next flight of stairs, 
to tell her mother she had found ten cents, and to 
get permission to confiscate it. 

This brought her to the main floor, and she still 
had to descend to the basement. But just as she 
reached the head of the basement-stairs, she heard 
her mother going to the outer door below to an¬ 
swer a knock; and not wishing at that particular 


“XC—A Christmas Story . 


271 


instant to appear as Lady Gray, and to be told by 
her mother, in the presence of strangers, that she 
was merely a silly child, traipsing about in old duds 
that were a mile too big for her, she drew back a 
little, and remained unseen. But she could see and 
hear pretty clearly, and this is what she saw and 
heard, though without understanding it thoroughly: 

When the door opened, a threadbare, stooping, 
prematurely old, but very cheerful and kindly man, 
with a bundle in his arms, stepped within. “ Good 
afternoon, Mrs. Homebody. I have brought those 
Christian Unions. You know you wanted them cer¬ 
tainly before Christmas. Surprise for Mr. Home¬ 
body, perhaps?” And Old Morocco stole a glance 
at Mrs. Homebody, indicating an earnest hope that 
she was in a good-natured, cash-paying mood. 

But she was not particularly good-natured just 
then—nobody is in the middle of a baking—and, 
moreover, she was in the economical temper. Econ¬ 
omy, with some people, means to postpone paying 
debts, and never to let go a bit of money without 
being obliged to. So she said indifferently, “ Well, 
you can leave the bundle and call again. We will 
see if it suits.” 

Old Morocco made another attempt. He untied 
the string, opened the bundle (slily putting the 
string in his pocket, to serve for another bundle), 
and displayed the books. There could be no doubt, 


272 


“X”—A Christmas Story . 


it was a beautiful piece of work; and Mrs. Home¬ 
body couldn’t help saying so. But she still fought 
off the evil moment of paying away money, though 
she did not for an instant intend to repudiate her 
obligation. “ Really,” she said, “ you must call again. 
I cannot possibly pay such a large bill now ”—here 
she thought suddenly of X up in the garret, and 
added, “ without great inconvenience. These are 
hard times, you must remember.” 

“ Ay, God knows,” said Old Morocco sorrow¬ 
fully; and added in a timid, polite way, “You 
couldn’t pay me three or four dollars on account, 
perhaps?” This was almost his last hope. If he 
got three or four dollars, the children should have 
their stockings and mittens, and the oyster-supper 
should certainly come off. But otherwise there was 
no chance to celebrate Christmas. 

Mrs. Homebody was really touched by the un¬ 
conscious pathos of his tone, and wished with all 
her heart that X had been a lot of small bills, so 
that she could have granted this request. But she 
was ashamed to produce a ten-dollar note after what 
she had said, so she merely repeated her invitation 
to call again. A curious phrase, that “ Call again ” ! 
We speak it to our . best friends, and it carries a 
great deal of cordial hospitality in it; we speak it 
to indifferent people indifferently, and it means no¬ 
thing ; then we speak it at the door to the young 


“X”—A Christmas Story. 


273 


man who collects the bills of the butcher or the 
grocer or the milkman, and it means again and again 
and again. We don’t say “ Call again ” to the doc¬ 
tor at present rates, if we can help it; and as for 
the gas-bill collector, he pays no attention to it if 
we do say it, but quietly goes home and stops our 
gas. This is, indeed, an outrage; but as it has no¬ 
thing to do with the present story, I pass it by in 
silence. Mrs. Homebody, in telling Old Morocco to 
come again, put it in a little less discouraging form 
than at first. “ Come again—day after to-morrOw,” 
said she, “ because to-morrow is Christmas, you know 
—and bring a receipted bill with you.” 

Old Morocco turned sadly and bowed himself out, 
saying, with an attempt at cheerfulness that seemed 
much like a sigh, “ Well, good-day; I must get 
back to my family.” She was half o’ mind, even 
then, to recall him. If she had known all that was 
in his thoughts, she certainly would have done it. 
But he never made a practice of narrating his do¬ 
mestic affairs; and she was merely led to feel in a 
general way that it would be far more in accordance 
with the principles that should rule *at Christmas 
time to pay this quiet, gentle, dilapidated old gen¬ 
tleman what she fairly owed him, than to turn him 
away so unnecessarily, on the theory that it is never 
best to be in a hurry about paying out money. 
While she hesitated, he closed the door and was gone. 


274 


X”—A Christmas Story . 


Instantly she heard the clear, shrill voice of little 
Sophy sounding down the stairs. “ Mother! ” cried 
Sophy, forgetting in her excitement that she was 
Lady Gray, and hadn’t any mother, “ may I give 
him my ten cents ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied her mother sarcastically, quite un¬ 
conscious of Sophy’s performances; “if you find ten 
cents lying around anywhere, give ’em to anybody 
you like! ” And Mrs. Homebody returned to the 
kitchen, where, in the rescue of a pie that was in 
imminent danger of getting burnt, she speedily for¬ 
got X and Sophy and Old Morocco. 

But Sophy had not waited for further discussion. 
With both hands she had turned the great knob on 
the front door, and whisked out, with all her dra¬ 
pery, into the street. 


v 

LADY GRAY. 

Old Morocco had not-gone very far; in fact, he 
could not resolve to go home until he had conquered 
his disappointment. In half an hour, perhaps, he 
would be able to take a brighter view of things, 
and bustle into his shop with a great show of cheer¬ 
fulness, saying, “ Well, children, what do you think ? 
Mrs. Homebody thinks the books are beautiful, and 


“X” — A Christmas Story . 275 

I am to call day after to-morrow and get the 
money.” But he couldn’t make that remark seem 
very exhilarating yet. So he walked very slowly 
down the street until he was arrested by a gentle 
pull at his coat, and, looking down, perceived a small 
creature in most outlandish costume, who said to 
him, out of the depths of a poke bonnet, “ Mr. 
Bookbinder, have you a family ? ” 

The question was so serious and so sudden that 
he answered before he had realized the absurdity of 
the situation: “Yes, indeed, God bless ’em, the best 
series that ever was put in cloth and leather! ” But 
then he began to laugh, and said : “ Why, my child, 
what is your name ? ” 

“ I am Lady Gray,” she replied with offended 
dignity. “ I have been making some calls, and I 
should like to call on your family, if you have no 
objections. Would your family like to have ten 
cents ? ” 

He winced a little at this, but soon lost every 
other feeling in his amusement. The manner of the 
child was so quaint and comical, he fell in at once 
with her fancy—that was his way with children, 
never to spoil a play by contradicting the little 
make-believers. 

“Well, my lady,” he replied, as gravely as pos¬ 
sible, “ I can’t say without consideration.” 

“ Oh! / know ; you needn’t tell nie>" was her 


276 


X”—A Christmas Story. 


answer. “ Children always like ten cents. I re¬ 
member a little girl that got a penny a day for— 
for several things; and she says your children will 
like it. Will you please to pull it out of my glove. 
It has got stuck in the thumb.” 

He bent over her, and took hold of the green 
edge that peeped out at her wrist, when, behold ! 
with a wriggle of joy, our friend X came out and 
unfolded himself to the welcome air. Old Morocco 
suspected at once that something was wrong; but 
he could not believe that Sophy, who seemed so 
fearless and innocent, however strangely she might 
be “ making believe ” for fun, had really run away 
with anybody’s money. “ Why, where did you get 
this ? ” said he. 

Sophy was not troubled with any sense of guilt. 
She thought X was a ten-cent stamp, and that she 
had a right to him. Nevertheless, she was a little 
embarrassed by Old Morocco’s question. She didn’t 
want to say she had found ten cents in the golden 
palace of the Duchess of East New York, for fear 
of being laughed at; so, after a moment’s consider¬ 
ation, she replied: “ A friend of mine, Mrs. Home¬ 
body, requested me to hand it to you.” And to 
make the thing complete, she added what she had 
overheard her mother saying, “You can give me a 
receipted bill.” 

Old Morocco could scarcely believe his ears; but 


“X”—A Christmas Story. 


277 


his eyes kept saying to him that his ears were not 
deceived, for there was X in his hand. “Yes, yes,” 
he said, ‘‘of course, of course; we must go round 
to my rooms, and I’ll receipt the bill. You are 
Mrs. Homebody’s little girl, I suppose?” 

But Sophy was not to be caught as easily as 
that. “ My name is Lady Gray,” she said with dig¬ 
nity; “and I call there occasionally.” 

“ Yes, yes, of course,” said Old Morocco, who 
was really thinking so much about what he would 
buy with part of X that he would scarcely have 
objected if Sophy had said she was Queen Victoria 
or Elizabeth Fry; indeed, his wits were wool-gath¬ 
ering (and oyster-gathering) to such an extent that, 
I fear, if he had been called upon suddenly to ar¬ 
range the Christmas celebration, he would have stewed 
the mittens and put the oysters in the stockings. 
Involuntarily he hastened his steps, so that Sophy 
had some trouble to keep up with him, particularly 
as neither her rank nor her shawl permitted her to 
trot. When he noticed this, he stopped suddenly 
and picked her up in an absent-minded way, as if 
she were one of his own children. It hurt her 
pride a little ; but as it was very comfortable to be 
carried, she concluded not to object to it; and truth 
requires the confession that, before they reached the 
bookbinder’s house, Lady Gray was actually snug¬ 
gling to Old Morocco’s shoulder! 


278 


“X?—A Christmas Story. 


Up the stairs he went, without stopping to 
breathe or speak, threw open the door of the shop, 
deposited Sophy inside, and saying hastily, “ I’ve got 
an errand to do right away—the stores won’t be 
open to-morrow, you know,” snatched a tin pail and 
disappeared. 

When he returned, after about half an hour, So¬ 
phy was in her glory, seated on his wife’s bed, and 
listened to with puzzled attention by the family, as 
she alternately asked questions in a patronizing 
way, and dilated • gorgeously upon her own remark¬ 
able experiences. The bookbinder’s wife did not 
know what to make of her, and waited for her hus¬ 
band’s return to find out how this strange child 
had come in his way. But the children, who knew 
by instinct and experience the fun of “ making-be- 
liev'e,” chose at once to accept her as Lady Gray, 
with all the splendors attached to the title. As Old 
Morocco entered, she was just describing the Home¬ 
body family as a collection 'of very nice people— 
particularly Sophy Homebody, who was a perfectly 
lovely child when she was dressed up, only her 
mother did not understand her, and did not dress 
her up often enough. 

The bookbinder brought with him a bundle, and 
a dozen big oysters in the pail, which he set away 
carefully where his wife could not see it, for he 
meant the oyster-supper to be a surprise party. 



“X”—A Christmas Story . 279 

Then he bethought himself more seriously of Sophy. 
She had probably strayed from home, and it was 
already growing dark. At his request she finally 
consented to be . escorted as far as the Homebodys’, 
saying that she must call there at all events, since 
she had promised to see little Sophy Homebody put 
to bed. The bookbinder saw through this transpa¬ 
rent bit of artifice, but said nothing; nor did he 
doubt that, however whimsical his little visitor’s story 
might be, she had really been sent by Mrs. Home¬ 
body to pay him ten dollars. So he signed the re¬ 
ceipt and tucked it in her glove, where the green¬ 
back had been ; and away they went together, So¬ 
phy promising graciously to call again soon. When 
they reached the door which bore Mr. Joshua Home¬ 
body’s name on a brass plate, Sophy rang the bell. 
She seemed slightly relieved when the cook came 
instead of her mother. “ Is it you it is, me led- 
dy ? ” said the cook, as the child, after a deep courtesy 
to Old Morocco, ran past her into the house. Then 
the door was closed, and the bookbinder hastened 
home, too happy to be puzzled over Lady Gray. 
Meanwhile, that noble lady had tripped up-stairs 
and put everything away, according to the stern rule 
of Aunt Sophronia, Duchess of East New York, “just 
exactly as she found it,” even going so far as to 
poke the glove in the stocking, and roll the stocking 
in the towel, and tuck the towel under the flannels. 


X!'—A Christmas Story . 


280 


VI. 


THE HEAD OF DANIEL WEBSTER . 

Doubtless a great many people bought oysters 
that Christmas eve after Old Morocco; but the only 
one that concerns us is Joshua Homebody. This 
worthy gentleman was feeling a good deal more hope¬ 
ful than he had felt a few days before. The panic 
was over, business was improving, and his salary, 
which depended somewhat on his success as a sales¬ 
man, was not going to be reduced. On the con¬ 
trary, the head of the firm had given him a de¬ 
cided intimation that after the first of January, if 
nothing unforeseen occurred, it would be increased; 
and this pleasant hint had been accompanied with 
a twenty-dollar note as a Christmas present. Some 
employers really do such things! So he came home 
in a generous mood and with a happy consciousness 
that he would not be obliged to go to the store 
to-morrow ; and on the way, he stopped and ordered 
some oysters, paying for them with the twenty-dol¬ 
lar note, and receiving in change our old friend X 
and a lot of smaller bills. After Sophy was abed, 
he thought, Mrs. Homebody and he would quietly 
slip out, and buy a present or two for the child. 

At supper everybody was good-natured; Mr. 
Homebody, for the reasons already given, which he 
had also communicated to his wife ; Mrs. Homebody, 


“X”—A Christmas Story . 


281 


for the additional reason that the Christmas pies 
had come out of the oven just right; and Sophy, 
because she had been Lady Gray for a whole after¬ 
noon, and nobody had contradicted her. But she 
was tired of that now; and so after supper, in her 
own proper character, she climbed upon her father's 
knee, and began to tell him of the bookbinder’s 
family, where she had been “ making a call.” Her 
mother was busy about some household matter when 
the story began, but she came in while Sophy was 
in the full tide of description, telling partly what 
her keen eyes had noted, partly what her keen ques¬ 
tions had drawn out, concerning the uncomplaining 
poverty of Old Morocco’s household. 

“ And only think, father, there weren’t chairs 
enough; and I sat on the bed, and Jane said a bed 
was ever so much better than a chair to sit on; 
and I asked them what they were going to have 
for Christmas, and they said stockings, they hoped; 
and I said, ‘ Of course; everybody has stockings to 
put the other things in ’ ; and they said, ‘ No, not that 
kind of stockings, but warm stockings, to put on ’; 
and Willie said, pretty loud, ‘ Yes, and perhaps mit¬ 
tens ; think of that! ’ And the sick lady said softly, 

1 Now, don’t set your hearts on anything, my dears. 
You know it depends.’ And, father, she just turned 
her face on the pillow, and I saw her cry a tear; 
and I shouldn’t wonder if she cried a whole lot; 


282 “X?—A Christmas Story . 

but of course I wouldn’t look any more, because it 
wasn’t polite.” 

By this time there was one person “ crying tears,” 
namely, Mrs. Homebody, who now realized how 
much disappointment her hasty refusal to pay Old 
Morocco’s bill had probably caused. “ He was here 
to-day to collect a bill of ten dollars for some work, 
and I put him off.” 

“Oho!” said Joshua shrewdly, “you’ve been get¬ 
ting the Christian Unions bound for me. Now, that’s 
just what I wanted. But we’ll pay for them out 
of my Christmas-box. We can call at the bindery 
to-night; it won’t be too late to make ’em happy. 
See ! ” And with that he laid before the astounded 
gaze of his better-half our old friend X! 

She knew X in a minute, by the mark she her¬ 
self had put under the head of Daniel Webster, in 
the left-hand lower corner. All in a whirl of amaze¬ 
ment, Mrs. Homebody rushed up into the attic 
without any candle. Down on her knees she went 
before the brass-knobbed palace—I mean trunk—and 
rummaged. She found the flannels and the stock¬ 
ing and the glove, and she felt the note inside, as 
she hastily squeezed the glove. How strange! 

Back to the parlor she went, clutching the glove 
tightly, as the boys from the country, invited upon 
the platform at a conjurer’s exhibition, clutch the 
things they are asked to hold, lest they should be 
spirited away or changed into something else. And 


u X. n - — A Christmas Story . 283 

very much like one of those surprised boys she felt 
when she opened her hand under the full gas-light 
down-stairs, and pulled out of that glove the book¬ 
binder’s bill with the book-binder’s acknowledgment 
at the bottom, in these words: 

“ Received payment through Lady Gray . God bless 
her and you , and give you many a Merry ChristmasP 

“Lady Gray?” ejaculated Joshua Homebody, in 
bewilderment. 

“ That’s me,” said Sophy; “ I’m Lady Gray— 
when I choose. And I paid him with my ten 
cents! ” 

Then there was a long explanation, during which 
the whole story came out, and it appeared clearly 
that Sophy was not to blame, but, in her innocence, 
had happened to do a very fortunate thing. “ It’s 
a lesson to me,” said her mother; “if I had paid 
you your ten cents, you wouldn’t have thought of 
taking the ten dollars; and if I had paid the book 
binder, you wouldn’t have run after him.” 

“ And we shouldn’t have had a Christmas story 
acted right in our family by our queer little girl. 
I guess nobody need complain this time, wife,” in¬ 
terrupted Joshua, with an extra hug of Sophy. 

“ Nobody but me,” said Sophy, straightening 
herself, under the inspiration of a great discovery. 
“ If that wasn’t my ten cents, somebody owes me 
ten cents; and I want it, to give to the bookbind¬ 
er’s wife my ownself.” 


284 


“ X—A Christmas Story . 


“Amen,” said Joshua with a good deal of enthu¬ 
siasm ; “ but now you must go to bed, or Santa 
Claus will be tired of listening at the top of the 
chimney, and wondering when those people down in 
front of the fireplace will stop their everlasting clack, 
and get out of the way! ” 

After Sophy was gone, there was a very jolly 
excursion into sundry shops on the part of the two 
parental Homebodys, and the results thereof next 
day were delightful. But after their own Christmas 
morning frolic the best pleasure of all came to pass. 
For they took Sophy and a big basket, and what 
should they do /'but call on the bookbinder. And 
out of that basket came an elegant repast, including 
roast turkey and mince-pie; and pretty soon the 
cook arrived with a lot of camp-stools, and another 
basket containing crockery and table-cloths; and Mr. 
and Mrs. Homebody said they had taken the lib¬ 
erty to invite themselves to dinner with the book¬ 
binder, because they had heard that his wife was 
confined to the room, and so could not come to 
dine with them. And there was no charity about 
it, but real fun, just as when anybody dines with 
anybody. The bookbinder’s Willie had to go behind 
the door two or three times, to say “O Jiminy!” 
he was so happy. 

And the queen of the feast, by common consent, 
was little Lady Gray. 


Karl the Fiddler. 


HIS is a story of strange old times, 
when beasts and birds could talk— 
as they can still, for all I know— 
and men (that is to say, children) 
could understand what they said, 
which, I regret to confess, has now 
become impossible^, There are a 
great many respects in which the 
world has improved, no doubt; but the fact is, the 
locomotives and factories and water-wheels keep up 
such a clatter that we cannot hear any more 
what flowers and winds whisper, or birds gossip 
about among the leaves in the sociable twilight, or 
cattle gravely discuss between meals. Things have 
changed and do change wonderfully in this world, 
and it is a comfort to remember that goodness and 
kindness and happiness do not alter—as you will 
see, dear children, from the story of Karl the Fiddler. 

Once upon a time, between the age of Abraham 
and the election of General Grant, there was a boy 
whose name was Karl, and he fiddled for a living. 





286 


Karl the Fiddler. 


He used to play such lively tunes, and nod his 
head so gayly while he played, that no one could 
hear him without desiring to dance; and whenever 
he had played for five minutes, you could hear all 
the toes and heels of the audience rapping out the 
tune. He was accustomed to travel from one place 
to another, and to pay for his lodging and his meals 
with his violin. He was welcome everywhere. When 

the children of any village saw him coming along the 
road with his green bag, they used to leave their 
play, and run to meet him; and the old women 
who sat spinning in the doorways, and the old men 

who were smoking their pipes in the sun, greeted 

him kindly. The pastor, who was a white-haired 
man and loved all children, but especially good 
ones, often said that Karl was the best boy he 
knew, for he was honest and industrious, and kind 
to all. “ He deserves,” said the pastor, “ to be 
rich as the baron, powerful as the emperor, and 
happy as a lark at sunrise.” Then Karl would 
laugh and answer: “ I want nothing of your barons 
and emperors. As for the lark, he and I know 

one another already. I often watch his nest in 
the morning, when the lady-lark and all the little 
>arks make the beds and put everything in order, 
while he flies up into the dawn and sings down to 
them how beautiful is the world. I understand 
their language, too; for every one who lives twelve 


Karl the Fiddler . 


287 


years without doing harm to any living thing will 
have his ears open to hear what birds and beasts 
and trees say. And I heard the wise mother-lark 
say to the little ones yesterday, when they had 
finished reciting their lessons: ‘ Take note of this, 
my children, for in this we are more sensible than 
men. To be rich is to have food and shelter; to 
be powerful is to do good ; to be happy is to love 
all things and sing.’ ” 

“ So you see,” Karl would add, “ according to 
the 'philosophy of the larks, I am rich and power¬ 
ful and happy. Only I do not sing; but my violin 
does that for me.” Then he would go merrily on 
his way. 

One day, in the middle of winter, Karl left the 
inn where he had spent the night before to go to 
the great city, miles away, beyond the woods. The 
guests all came to the door to bid him farewell, 
and the storm seemed so dreadful to them that 

they said: “You must not go to-day, Karl; you 

will never find your way through the wood. You 
will never get there alive.” But he shook his curly 
head, laughing and saying: “ The cold world is a 
warm world to me; I am not afraid.” Then the 
landlady put a little bundle of food in his hand, 
for fear he might lose the path and be hungry; 

and he slung his green bag over his shoulder, and 

went on his way. The wintls blew terribly, and as 


288 


Karl the Fiddler . 


they rushed by him he heard them say: “ Is that 
you, Karl \ We are very sorry to knock you about 
so roughly, but the fact is we are on a race from 
the North Pole to the Equator; and we have taken 
such a long start, and got a-going so fast, that we 
can’t stop. Next summer we’ll come back and 
play with you among the roses.” And with that 
away they went, so fast that Karl could not answer 
them. The snow fell furiously, so that he could 
hardly see; but as the crystal flakes went by, he 

heard them whisper: “We are sorry, Karl, to get 

in your way; but the fact is, we were sitting just 
now on the edge of a cloud up there, and those 
rough winds came by and jostled us, and we fell 
off; and we have been falling so far that we can¬ 
not stop.” Karl laughed and said : “ No matter, 

next summer I shall find you in the brook, and we’ll 
have good times with the frogs and speckled trout.” 

Presently he got into the wood. There the wind 
was not so strong, but the snow was very deep. 
Before long he knew that he had lost his way. At 
first lie was not frightened, but went bravely on, 
expecting soon to get out of the forest. At last it 
began to grow dark, and he was very cold and 
tired; so he sat down in the snow by the side of 
a great tree. But the snow was so deep that he 
sank in out of sight. So he worked away till he 
had scooped out a little cave in it. Into that he 


Karl the Fiddler . 


289 


crawled, and ate the supper which the good landlady 
had given him. After supper he felt both numb and 
sleepy; and, as he did not know how to get any 
warmer, he thought he would go to sleep. Just as 
he was almost asleep he heard the snow-crystals 
whispering to him: “ Karl! Karl! do not sleep here! 
We are doing our best to keep you warm; but the 
closer we keep to you, the colder you grow, and 
we fear we shall freeze you to death! ” When 
Karl heard that, he resolved not to sleep. So, to 
keep himself awake, he took out his violin, and began 
with his numb fingers to play a lively tune. Was 
not that a strange thing—a boy playing a tune on the 
violin, at the bottom of a snow-drift, in the middle 
of a forest, on a stormy winter’s night? Not half 
as strange as the next thing that happened ; for 
just as he was growing so faint with cold that he 
could not play much longer, a big, gruff voice said: 
“ Karl, is that you ? ” 

Karl scrambled out of his cavern, and looked 
about in vain to see who had spoken. There was 
nothing but the silent trees, reaching up from the 
white snow to the black sky, like pillars on a marble 
floor holding up an iron roof. Presently the voice 
said again: “ Karl, come in and get warm ! ” And 
this time it certainly came from the tree near which 
he had been lying; but it could not be the tree 
that spoke, for the voice used not tree-language, but 


290 


Karl the Fiddler . 


animal-language, which is as different as can be; and 
besides, in the winter the trees are so cold that 
they cannot talk at all, but only shiver and chatter 
their branches, as people that are cold chatter their 
teeth. While he looked at the tree and wondered 
what this could mean, he saw that it was hollow, 
and the hole at the bottom was stopped with a 
great snow-ball; but the snow-ball was strangely 
agitated, as if trying of itself to get away. He ran 
to the spot, and helped with all his might; and 
when the ball was a little moved, so that he could 
pass by, he crawled into the hole with his violin 
as quickly as he could, and the ball rolled back 
into its place. 

Now, who should be in the tree but a bear—a 
great black bear—who growled out very kindly to 
him, with a long yawn : “ You have spoiled my 
winter nap for me, Karl; I haven’t slept more than 
six weeks, and here you come fiddling under my 
very nose! Well, never mind! I’m glad to meet 

you again. Here, snuggle up, and warm yourself. 

I haven’t forgotten how good you were to me when 
you played the violin for me to dance in the 

menagerie.” 

They had a great deal to say about old times, 
but, unfortunately, they did not say it ; for just as 
the bear was about to relate how he happened to 
forsake the menagerie business and take to the 


Karl the Fiddler . 


291 


woods, he gave a great snore, and went to sleep 
for the rest of the winter. That is a most remark¬ 
able thing. I have often seen people go to sleep 
while I was talking, but never when it was their 
own turn. But bears are peculiar; and Karl, under¬ 
standing their ways, nestled close to his old friend, 
and fell asleep himself. In the morning he slipped 
out without disturbing the bear, and found the 
storm was over. Stepping lightly on the tops of the 
drifts, he found his way before long out of the wood, 
and at last into the great city. 

Now, the king of that country was a terrible 
tyrant. Every one knew it but himself; and as no 
one dared to tell him, and he was not acquainted 
with any other kings who could set him a good 
example and make him ashamed of himself, he ac¬ 
tually considered himself the best and wisest of 

mankind. Every day he held a court in the great 

hall of his palace, and executed what he called 
“justice.” He would listen to. each case that was 
brought before him, until he either understood the 
matter, or (what was much the same thing) got 
tired of trying to understand it, and then he would 
either turn his head from side to side, or nod it up 

and down. If the first, the petition was denied, 

and the petitioner was immediately removed to have 
his head cut off. If it was a nod, the petition was 
granted, and the petitioner hurried away as fast as 


292 


Karl the Fiddler. 


he could, for fear there was some mistake about it. 
In either case all was over in a few seconds; and 
as the next applicant for justice was called in 
directly, and no time was lost, the amount of busi¬ 
ness the king would get through with in one fore¬ 
noon was something quite astonishing. 

As Karl stood in the crowd at one side of the 
great hall, looking on, the first case for that morn¬ 
ing was called. An Egyptian merchant came forward 
and fell at the feet of the king, declaring his peti¬ 
tion. He claimed as his slave a poor girl, who was 
also brought before the throne, but in chains. The 
cruel merchant told a false story, but he felt secure 
of triumph; for he had previously bribed the prime 
minister, and even sent a handsome sacred cat from 
Thebes to the king himself. This cat, which was 
now walking about the hall, was pure white all over, 
with flaming eyes. As it came near Karl, he over¬ 
heard it purring to itself: “How that villain lies! 
I am not from Thebes at all; and as for this poor 
girl, she used to live in the same street with me, 
and I know she is no slave/’ When Karl heard 
that, he was so impressed with the wickedness of 
mankind that, forgetting where he stood, he gave a 
long whistle. Everybody turned that way, to see 
who could be so daring—the king among the rest; 
and the obedient guards, who were already watching 
for the slightest sign of the royal decision, when 


Karl the Fiddler. 


293 


they saw the king’s head turn aside in that style, 
at once seized the Egyptian merchant, dragged him 
out of the royal presence, and before he could have 
said Jack Robinson (if he had tried to do so, which 
he didn’t) cut off his ugly head. As for the poor 
girl, you may well believe she did not stop long to 
see what had saved her. 

But for Karl the situation was embarrassing. He 
thought he would try the effect of a little fiddling 
upon the company; and, just as the soldiers were 
about to take hold of him, he began a lively tune. 
Everybody was delighted ; and the king above all, 
who, in a few seconds, might be seen nodding his 
head to keep time with the music. Now the officers 
kept bringing in new cases for judgment; and there 
was the king nodding assent to every one. The 
first was a distressed widow, asking protection against 
her husband’s brother; and she got what she wanted 
so quickly that a host of other afflicted and op¬ 
pressed persons, who had been afraid to come before 
the king, crowded at the foot of the throne. That 
was a great morning for business! By the time the 
tune was over, and the king stopped nodding, no 
less than two hundred and seventy-three poor people 
had got real justice done them. 

A great shouting was then heard from before the 
palace; and when the king went out upon the bal¬ 
cony, lo! there was the population of the city, full 


294 


Karl the Fiddler. 


of gladness and praise, because of the merciful and 
fatherly conduct of their sovereign. This set the 
king a-thinking. He wondered at first what it all 
meant; but after several days of deep meditation, 
he began to suspect that he had been a tyrant and 
a fool. So he rang the bell for the prime minister, 
and said to him that his services were no longer 
required. Then he rang again for the chief of police, 
and to him he said: “Bring me the fiddler!” 

That’s the way Karl the fiddler came to be prime 
minister; but how on earth it happened that the 
lovely, lovely daughter of the king fell in love with 
him, and he with her, I never could tell. Every¬ 
thing else can be explained, in one way or another; 
but that sort of thing is quite incomprehensible. It 
is certain, however, that, a few years after the period 
to which I now allude, a portly King Karl used to 
sit with his peerless bride by his royal side; and a 
fair-haired little prince used to write with great 
pains in his copy-book the following excellent maxim, 
composed, it is said, by his royal sire: 

“ I am rich, but have only food and shelter; 

Powerful, but only to do good; 

Happy, but only because I love all things.” 


Two Incidents in Dick’s Life. 


BY SARAH D. RAYMOND. 


ORTUNATELY, it happened when 
all the children were in the nur¬ 
sery. You see it was such a 
stormy day that even Harry, stout 
as he was, and little as he cared 
for cold, could not go out-doors. 
So, like a good elder brother, he 
devoted himself to playing with 
his sisters, Lotty and Mabel. Little Dick, the ca¬ 
nary-bird, was taking his usual recess outside of his 
cage, flying from one curly head to the other, or 
perching on the toilet-bottle to gratify his vanity in 
the looking-glass; when, unseen by Norah, who was 
busily darning the knees of Harry’s second-best trou¬ 
sers, or by the children, intent on the erection of 
the seventh story of Harry’s grand block-tower—in 
stole Kitty! Now, Kitty was regarded with affec¬ 
tion by the warm-hearted little folks, but though 

love is often blind to the faults of its beloved ob¬ 
ject, in this case the tenderest affection could not 










296 


Two Incidents in Dick's Life . 


induce these small people to repose the slightest 
confidence in the good intentions of Kitty, as far 
as Dick was concerned. 

Poor Dick had flown down from the toilet-bottle, 
having twisted and turned his vain little head as 
much to his satisfaction as if he had been the most 
beautifully-curled and mustachioed young dandy. 
His bright eyes had spied some stray seeds scat¬ 
tered under his cage, and he had set himself to 
work to save Norah the trouble of sweeping them 
into the dust-pan. Kitty meanwhile crouched low, 
made herself as much like a snake as possible, and 
came creeping along very stealthily and quietly. 
Norah was in the middle of an ingenious rent, and 
was lost to everything but the catching together of 
the frayed threads; the tower was trembling under 
Harry’s nervous fingers, as he was placing a spool 
with a flag in it on the tip-top, higher than his 
own head; and sympathetic Lotty and Mabel were 
holding their breath—when a strange sound caused 
Harry to start, and down came the work of art! 

But the children did not stop to mourn over 
that , for the sight that met the three pairs of hor¬ 
ror-stricken eyes made them forget everything. There 
was little Dick fluttering in naughty Pussy’s mouth! 
Norah exclaimed, “Murther! he’s kilt intirely! ” and 
Lotty and Mabel screamed with fright and grief; 
but Harry, being a man of seven years, lost neither 


Two Incidents in Dick's Life . 297 

presence of mind nor time, but sprang to his Pet’s 
assistance. Kitty, half fierce and half frightened, 
jumped on the table, then down and across the' 

floor under the big bed, followed by wrathful Harry. 
For a moment Harry thought it was all \ver for 
poor little Dick, for the bed was too low fo^ him 
to creep under, and Puss would not stir for all the 
pokings of the blow-gun that was Harry’s weapon. 
But, quick as thought, he squeezed himself as flat 

as a plump boy could, and by dint of scraping and 

bruising his arm and shoulder, managed to reach 
Kitty’s tail; and, oh! how he pulled when he did 
get hold ! Now, Kitty felt terribly hurt and grieved 
when she felt the pain; for a moment she tried to 
keep her position by sticking her claws into the 

carpet, but Harry pulled with the force of love and 
justice, and had nearly dragged her forth when a 
wild desire for revenge took possession of her. She 
opened her jaws in order to bite Harry’s hand, and 
out dropped Dick, his feathers wet and broken, his 
strength exhausted. Kitty drove her sharp, white 
teeth into Harry’s little fat hand, and then, mad 
with pain and the overthrow of all her plans for a 
choice bird-dinner, rushed out of the nursery. 

Harry had borne the sharp bite without a mur¬ 
mur, though his blue eyes filled with tears that he 
could not keep back; but when he took up little 
Dick, and saw his condition, thinking his pet was 


298 Two Incidents in Dick's Life. 

dying, he burst into tears. Lotty and Mabel joined 
the sad chorus, and Norah was in vain trying to 
comfort them, when mamma, having heard the com¬ 
motion down-stairs, came in. 

Mrs. West soon heard the whole story, broken 
as it was with tears and ejaculations, and took the 
bird on her left palm to see how far he was in¬ 
jured. Little Dick was very sensible, and he had 
also unlimited faith in his kind mistress, for it was 
she who had taught him his pretty tricks, and 
brought him sugar and apple and the earliest spring 
chickweed. So he lay quite patiently, his little heart 
beating very fast from his fright and suffering, while 
she examined his wings, claws, and body to see 
what must be done for him. 

Pretty soon, to the children’s unbounded joy, she 
pronounced him all right, and told them that she 
would put him back in his cage, and when he had 
forgotten his adventure she thought he would be as 
lively and gay as ever. Sure enough! after several 
hours of dejected hopping from one perch to an¬ 
other, and long, sad meditations on the bottom of 
the cage, Dick cleared his voice with a chirp or so, 
and then timidly essayed a feeble song; and the 
next morning he woke them all as early as usual 
with his cheery trill. 

Now, this part of my story is the first incident 
I thought important enough to tell. The next is a 


Two Incidents in Dick's Life . 299 

still stranger history, and I hope all my young 
readers will be anxious to hear it. 

About a week or ten days after Dick’s hair-breadth 
escape, and while Harry’s sore hand was still bound 
up .with ointment that Dr. Jones had prescribed, the 
events took place that form the second of the two 
great incidents of Dick’s life. 

The* children had been having a perfect carnival 
in the nursery. Without really meaning to be mis¬ 
chievous, they had managed to do a great many 
wrong things. It had been a day when poor Norah, 
with all her good-nature, had been fairly at her 
wit’s end, and had declared “ the witches was in 
thim children!” Lotty, in her laudable desire to 
help mamma, had pulled a large ink-bottle upon her 
own curly pate, saturating head and clothes! While 
mamma and Norah were busy removing the marks 
of this dreadful catastrophe, Mabel, being fired with 
zeal by the sight of so much soap and water, and 
being also by nature a tidy little housewife, removed 
all the doll’s furniture from her big baby-house, and 
neatly scrubbed the floors, from garret to kitchen, 
with papa’s nice new tooth-brush, using the hard 
soap with an unsparing hand! Harry, coming in 
later in the day, had added a liberal contribution to 
the day’s disasters by shooting a hole through tjie 
glass door of the book-case with his blow-gun, and 
overturning the flower-stand, as he backed out of 



300 Two Incidents in Dick's Life . 

the room in his dismay! Altogether, both the mis¬ 
tress and the nurse-maid had a great feeling of re¬ 
lief and rest when the last good-nights were echoed 
faintly from the • three small beds in the chamber 
beyond the nursery. 

Norah had carefully turned down the gaslight, so 
that Dick should not chirp and disturb the little 
trio of “ troublesome comforts,” had disposed a small 
towel-rack, full of aprons airing, at a safe distance 
from the grate, and had gone down to sit in the 
kitchen with Bridget. Mamma had smoothed her 
sweet face into its usual serene expression, and was 
deep in a rubber of backgammon with papa; and 
for a while everything was safe and quiet. 

Now, when Mrs. West had bought Dick of the 
bird-fancier two years ago, the man had repeated, 
over and over again, “ Splendid singer he is, ma’am; 
warranted to sing by daylight or gaslight! ” Mrs. 
West did not think much of this at the time, but 
she soon found that the lively little fellow would 
hop and chirp all night if he saw the least spark 
of light. Often when one of the children was sick 
at night, Dick would have to be hung in another 
room, such a singing would he keep up ! 

On this occasion Dick was deep in dreams, with 
his bright eyes closed and his saucy head snugly 
tucked under his wing, when, in the midst of his 
slumbers, he was suddenly waked by a light. In- 


Two Incidents in Dick's Life . 


301 


stantly he was on two legs instead of one, and in a 
few seconds was chirping in a very lively tone. 
Thinking that a nocturnal lunch would taste good, 
he hopped down to the seed-box, and was busily 
engaged in eating. Brighter and brighter gleamed 
the light, and presently it attracted our wise little 
bird, so that he flew into his ring, and began 
a soft little song. But the light that pleased 
little Dick was far more dazzling than the ordi¬ 
nary gaslight, for a live coal had snapped from 
the midst of the glowing fire, and in a moment the 
aprons began to blaze! One of them, falling off, 
lay on Mabel’s little heap of clothes, and these were 
soon on fire; the chair near by contained Lotty’s 
clothes, and just beyond that, through the open 
door, was the foot of Harry’s white bed. The 
three precious lives were steeped in a sound, child¬ 
ish slumber, while the hearts around which the little 
lives were entwined were beating calmly and un¬ 
consciously in papa’s and mamma’s bosoms. Could 
nothing save them ? Had they prayed in vain to 
God to watch over them that night and keep them 
from harm ? Would he look down from heaven and 
see them perish, without stretching forth his arm to 
help ? 

No, God did not bring this great sorrow upon 
our friends; he told little Dick to sing, louder and 
vet louder. 


302 Two Incidents in Dick's Life . 

The children, tired out with their play, slept on, 
and did not hear the friendly voice ; but Mrs. West, 
down-stairs, started and held her dice-box still to 
listen. “ Why don’t you throw, my dear ? ” said 
her husband. 

“ Hark! George,” said she, “ I think I hear Dick 
singing! ” 

“Well, what if he is singing ? ” 

“ Why, he never sings unless there is a light! ” 

“ Probably Norah is up there for some reason. 
Throw again. Doublets, I declare! What a little 
woman you are ! ” 

So on went the game, while up-stairs the fire 
had got possession of Harry’s bed-clothes, and the 
smoke began to be very thick. Little Dick seemed 
to think something was wrong, but sang on bravely, 
and at last Mrs. West, being afraid he would wake 
the children, told her husband to wait until she had 
been up to see into the matter, promised him his 
revenge in another game, and ran up-stairs. 

Opening the door where her treasures were, she 
was blinded and choked by a sudden smoke. Be¬ 
yond, in the adjoining room, she could still hear 
little Dick. She joined her voice to his, and Mr. 
West came flying up-stairs, soon followed by Norah 
and Bridget and Bridget’s cousin, John Thomas, 
whom the dreadful cry of “ Fire! ” had roused in 
a moment. 


Two Incidents in Dick's Life . 303 

Mrs. West, though almost fainting with terror, 
caught up Harry, and made Norah and Bridget un¬ 
derstand that Lotty and Mabel must also be 

snatched out of bed; and Mr. West, with John 
Thomas’s help, emptied the water-pitchers and the 

pails from the bath-room near by. The little ones, 
hardly comprehending what had taken place, were 
quickly tucked in mamma’s bed, and the two ser¬ 
vant-girls ran back to help fill the pails at the fau¬ 
cets. It was all done so quickly that it hardly 

took as long as it has taken me to write 

about it. 

Mamma had been very courageous until every¬ 
thing that she could do had been done, and then 
she felt her strength leave her, and sank upon the 
floor. Lotty and Mabel, after a few ineffectual at¬ 
tempts to ask some questions, fell fast asleep ; but 
Harry had been more thoroughly aroused, and now 
suddenly asked, “What’s the matter, mamma? Why 
did you bring me into your room ? ” Receiving no 
immediate answer, he sat up in bed, and began 
again, “I thought I heard Dick singing.” 

“ O Harry! ” burst out mamma through her 
tears, “ Dick’s singing saved your life! ” And then 
she fell into such a passion of joyful weeping that 
she could say no more. Harry did not know why 
he should cry, but cry he did, in sympathy with 
mamma! Mamma, seeing this, tried to compose her- 


304 Two Incidents in Dick's Life . 

self, and, coming to the bed, soothed and patted her 
darling boy until he fell asleep. 

Presently papa came in, and after some more 
tears and prayers of heartfelt thanksgiving, he took 
Harry up to the spare room, while mamma had her 
two little daughters with her in her bed all that 
long night. In the morning, papa told his little 
children what a terrible danger they had escaped; 
how God had taken care of them, and how little 
Dick was the one who had told mamma that some¬ 
thing was wrong. They listened with wide-open 
eyes, and this is all Harry said, “ Dick remembered 
that I saved his life, and now that he’s saved mine, 
I’m gladder than ever that I hung on to Kitty’s 
tail so tight; but my! wasn't she mad though?” 

Papa and mamma laughed and wiped their eyes, 
and took the children in to see the blackened and 
disordered nursery. Mamma passed through the open 
folding-doors into the day-nursery, and went up to 
the cage. As she opened the door, out hopped 
little Dick upon her finger, and the grateful mother 
pressed her lips again and again upon his bright 
feathers. I can tell you Dick had an extra big lump 
of sugar that day; and they have loved him more 
and more every day since. 


My Baby and my Bird. 


BY SARAH D. RAYMOND. 


HE story about the canary-bird Dick, 
and how he saved the life of a lit¬ 
tle boy who had previously saved 
him from being eaten by puss, in¬ 
terested a good many little boys 
and girls, and so many people have 
asked me if that story was true 
that I have felt sorry I could not say yes, and 
have often wished that Tiptoe, my canary, would 
only do some wonderful thing, that I might have a 
true story of a bird to tell my little friends. But 
Tiptoe, or Tip, as he is called in familiar conversa¬ 
tion, has been very shy until within a few months. 
Lately he has acted so like a canary of thought and 
wisdom that, although he has not yet managed to 
save any one’s life, I feel inclined to tell something 
about him, and I assure my young readers that 
every word of this story will be true. To begin 
with, at this very moment he is walking up and 
down my paper, examining every word I write. Per- 



305 





3°6 


My Baby and My Bird. 


haps he thinks I don’t spell correctly, or is criti¬ 
cising my style; no, I have it! he thinks I shall 
not do him justice, for, between you and me, Tip¬ 
toe is rather vain. (Well, Tip, stop pecking at my 
pen, and let me tell the world how pretty you are.) 
There! now he is quieter, almost sitting on the 
paper, and occasionally turning his head. He is not 
a yellow bird—that is, the yellow is nearly covered 
with black, making him what the bird-sellers call a 
“ green canary.” So he is not as gay and hand¬ 
some a fellow (get out of my way, Tip !) as some 
I have seen. The shape of his body and tail is 
very graceful, however, and his head is set on in 
the most knowing manner. (Just now, when I 
wanted to take another sheet of paper, he would 
not be driven away by fair means, and I had to 
slide him off by taking one end of the sheet and 
pulling it from under him; as it was foolscap, and 
he was at the very bottom of the page, it made 
quite a “ skating rink ” for him, and he appeared to 
enjoy it hugely.) 

But now I must tell you how he plays with my 
baby-boy. When Baby creeps, and the cage-door is 
open, as it generally is in the daytime, out flies 
Tip, and stands in front of Master Baby, taking 
good care to keep just out of reach. Baby creeps, 
exclaiming in the most excited manner, “ Dar-dar- 
dar.” Tip hops, and when Baby is exhausted by 


My Baby and my Bird. 


307 


his fruitless endeavor to clutch the living top, Tip 
stops and waits for him to recover himself. One 
day he led Baby from all frequented paths, and en¬ 
ticed him under the bed, *then quietly and slyly 
trotted off, leaving the poor child unable to get out 
—for he did not know enough to turn, and it was 
impossible for him to back out. I had to run and 
pull him backwards by his little feet, which, being 
a dignified baby, insulted him dreadfully, and he sat 
apart from the rest of us for some time with his 
finger in his mouth, evidently hoping for redress or 
apology. Meanwhile, Tip was perched on a picture- 
frame, and actually winked (and would have chuckled 
if he could) at Baby’s discomfiture. 

Baby is * very fond of waltzing with me, and 
though Tip looked askance at this performance for 
some time, he finally made up his mind that it was 
a pleasant thing to join in the mazy dance, so the 
other day, while Baby and I were whirling merrily 
around the nursery, Tip suddenly made a third, and 
rested on my arm. He seemed astounded at the 
amount of exercise it involved to keep himself bal¬ 
anced ; he was quite giddy at first, but very soon 
became used to the turning and the reversing, and 
has frequently participated in our frolic. Wouldn’t 
it be nice if he would only sing for us while we 
were sliding around ? 

The other day a dreadful thing happened to 


3°8 


My Baby and my Bird, 


Baby. I can hardly bear to tell about it. He has 
to endure what Tip knows nothing about, and that 
is, cutting his teeth. Suddenly, while Baby was 
taking his lunch from his bottle, he was seized with 
a terrible convulsion, and lay for a long time with¬ 
out knowing or seeing anything. The dear, good 
doctor came and worked over him a long time. Tip 
was out of the cage, and when he saw Baby lying 
on the lounge so still and white he was alarmed, 
and flew upon the pillow to see what was the mat¬ 
ter with his beloved little playmate. We could not 
keep him away from Baby, although we brushed 
him off and waved him back a great many times. 
I think he suspected the doctor of mischief, for he 
followed him two or three times, and whenever he 
approached very near the little sufferer, Tip would 
chirp rather angrily and go to the Baby, some¬ 
times hopping around on his dress or his arm ; once 
even perching on the spoon that the doctor was put¬ 
ting in Baby’s mouth, and fluttering his wings en¬ 
ergetically. I believe that he knew something was 
wrong , and had a vague idea of protecting his com¬ 
panion. 

After a few days Baby got well, and Tip seemed 
more than ever to wish to be near him. The first 
morning that the baby was regularly bathed after 
his illness, Tip was full of eagerness and bustle. 
He flew to the bowl several times and around the 


My Baby and my Bird . 


309 


baby-basket, and finally settled on the edge of the 
bowl; and when Baby’s hands were put in, Tip 
made a motion as if to jump in and wash his claws. 
The rim was so broad and slippery that the little 
fellow was put to his wits to keep from sliding into 
the water—which would have done for him probably 
what a ducking in a pond would do for you. Tip 
sometimes flies to Baby’s cradle in the morning, and 
swings on the side, chirping and fluttering, and let¬ 
ting Baby almost get hold of him; and the other 
day, having noticed Baby pick up some of his scat¬ 
tered seeds and taste them (though I soon put a 
stop to the experiment), he waited his turn, and 
when I went to the pitcher to pour Baby’s food into 
the bottle, Tip perched on my hand, and, at the 
risk of going head foremost into the warm drink, 
he sipped the farina from the edge of the pitcher. 
Possibly he thought, “ If Baby tastes my food, I’ll 
taste Baby’s ”; but, whatever he thought, that is 
what he did. I often wonder if it may not be that 
Baby and Tip understand each other better than I 
understand either of them. Perhaps “ Dar-dar-dar ” 
and “ Chip, chip, chip ” may mean a variety of 
things, the emphasis and change of voice conveying 
the different ideas. At all events, Baby, who gets 
so vexed if he cannot get hold of everything else 
he wants, seems perfectly satisfied if, after stretching 
out his roseleaf of a hand, with the remark “ Dar- 


3 IO 


My Baby and my Bird . 


dar,” he only receives a soft peck on each finger in 
succession, and the answer “ Chip chip.” Tip, in his 
turn, never acts frightened at the wild clutch for 
him, if only Baby makes the clutch. Should any 
one else make such an advance, he would be terrified. 

Tip does not confine his affection to Baby, but 
condescends to notice and tolerate both the other 
children. When Arthur approaches the cage, Tip 
flutters and shows great eagerness for a friendly 
combat with him. He chirps a loud defiance when 
he sees Arthur enter the room, and frequently hops 
on the little boy’s hand to peck seed or sugar, 
climbing up the arm to the shoulder, and even tak¬ 
ing his stand on Arthur’s head sometimes, when he 
gravely inspects his hairs, one at a time. He also 
visits Little Sister’s baby-house, which is in close 
neighborhood to the cage. You cannot think how 
funny he looks when he trots up and down in the 
tiny rooms with the air of one taking account of 
stock, examining carpets, chairs, and other furniture. 
He sat on the sofa for some time one day, though 
truth compels me to say he very improperly seems 
to prefer the table for a resting-place. I dare say 
my funny little pet is thinking of Tenting it in the 
spring and going to housekeeping! 

Last year about this time a lady came to visit 
me, and she told me about taming her two canary- 
birds, “ Seagreen ” and “ Chiddle.” She took a great 


My Baby and my Bird\ 311 

deal of notice of Tiptoe, though he was then a wild 
little fellow, whom I did not dare to let out of the 
cage. However, acting on her advice, this winter for 
the first time I let my birdie have the “ freedom 
of the ” nursery and bed-room, and it is to this that 
I owe his tameness, I am sure. After becoming 
acquainted with the furniture he tried the human 
beings who belonged to the rooms. This year, a 
few days ago, this same lady came again to visit 
me. Did little Tiptoe recognize the mistress of 
Seagreen and Chiddle, the kind friend who had re¬ 
commended liberty and the free use of his buoyant 
wings ? Who can say ? At all events, he flew to 
her when she came in, and was certainly unusually 
happy in her society. He accepted cracker from 
her hand directly, and, soon perching on her shoulder, 
seemed lost in pleasant meditation. The quiet mur¬ 
mur of my conversation with her soothed him, so 
much so that when she opened her mouth to take 
her share in the talk, Tip roused up and gave her 
teeth an energetic peck, which seemed to say, “ Do 
stop talking—you disturb me! ” But as our chat 
was not to be so easily stopped, he resigned himself 
to the inevitable, and, resolving to listen and enjoy, 
snuggled down in her ruff, quite after the manner 
of the Culprit Fay (about whom Mamma must read 
to you), occasionally giving her lips a soft peck with 
his bill as a mark of decided approbation. I think 


312 


My Baby and my Bird ’ 


it was evidently a case of what is called “ the tender 
passion.” Tip has fallen a victim to the gentle 
fascinations of my charming friend—indeed, nothing 
could be pleasanter or easier—and the heart in 
his golden breast will ache sadly when she says 
“ Good-by.” Yesterday, being indisposed, the lady 
ate her breakfast up-stairs. Tip was soon on the 
tiptoe of excitement, and I must say she humored 
his curiosity to an extent that would make a spoilt 
child of him were she to stay long. She let him 
taste her butter, her cream-toast, and all the other 
strange dishes. It went so far that my Lord Tip 
sulked very naughtily because she presumed to take 
the salt-cellar away. He rumpled up his feathers, 
which gave him the effect of pouting all over , and 
was only mollified by the offer of a small piece of 
cold turkey. 

Well, dear little girls and boys, I might gossip 
with you all the afternoon, and still be unable to 
give you a correct idea of how wonderfully cunning 
and pretty my Tiptoe is. Who could describe the 
bright, eager eyes, the knowing and saucy twist of 
his head, the slim legs, the handsome dark coat and 
yellow vest of our little dandy? And as for trying 
to make you know my baby without seeing him— 
well! just ask your mother if any mother would 
attempt such a thing unless she were allowed months 
of time and reams of foolscap! 


The End of Tiptoe’s Tale. 


BY SARAH D. RAYMOND. 



CHILDREN! a dreadful thing hap¬ 
pened at our house the other day; 
and those of you who have heard, 
through the Christian Union , of Tip¬ 
toe, the canrry, will sympathize with 
me, I am sure. 

Now, to begin at the beginning, 
as my own little children like to 
have me do, it was quite a mild, balmy afternoon, 
such as March sometimes favors us with, and for 
this reason, I suppose, our furnace fire had been 
carefully piled high, and was roaring away as it 
ought in midwinter. Any one that thought for a 
moment would be apt to say that so much heat 
was not necessary, but there are those who don’t 
think even for a moment; however, that’s neither 
here nor there. % 

But, as I said, it was very warm in the house, 
and we opened all the windows we could to let in 
the fresh air. Master Baby was taking a ride with 






314 The End of Tiptoes Tale . 

Nurse and Little Sister, and Master Tip was sulk¬ 
ing at home. In vain did I try to coax him to 
his cage, so that the nursery windows might be 
opened. He perched on the top of a very high 
book-case, where he puffed himself up like the frog 
in a fable, trying, no doubt, to overawe me with a 
view of his greatness, and impress upon me the like¬ 
ness between himself and the raven in the poem 
that children like the sound of, but don’t understand; 
but I knew by experience that if I asked him to 
taste a bit of Albert biscuit, he could never act the 
part well enough to ejaculate, in the words of that 
dignified bird, ‘‘Nevermore.” So, though not at all 
struck with his majestic defiance of my wiles, and 
not having any Albert biscuit handy, besides being 
in a great hurry to go down and see a lady visitor 
who had just called, I shut the doors cautiously and 
opened the bath-room window, in hopes that the 
cool air would steal in through the keyhole and re¬ 
vive the fainting nursery. 

While I was having a polite chat with the lady 
in the parlor, in comes Little Sister, tired of walk¬ 
ing, and trots quietly up-stairs to take off her hat 
and cloak (like the proper young woman she is), 
and then come down to the parlor to help entertain 
the company. I heard the little feet going up, up, 
up, rather slowly, then for a moment the sound 
stopped, and then—as hurried a descent down the 


The End of Tiptoes Tale. 315 

long staircase as the extreme shortness of the legs 
would warrant, and then—children, what do you sup-, 
pose Little Sister said ? 

“ O mamma! Tip has flown out the bath-room 
window! I just went to open the door to go in 
the nursery, and he flew quick as anything over my 
head; and I didn’t mean to, and lies gone!" 

Now there was confusion immediately. We held 
a hurried consultation, questioned the panting little 
girl about the direction Tip had taken, and sent the 
waiter-girl, cage in hand, to a neighboring garden, 
in the vague hope that the fugitive might remain 
for five minutes where he had been seen to descend. 
Aunt Lou came in in the midst of the talking, and 
I seized her hat and coat, which didn’t in the least 
“ match ” my dress and polonaise. If you had seen 
me in the street, you would have crossed the road, 
fearing to meet a crazy woman; for my dress had 
a train, Aunt Lou’s borrowed coat was unbuttoned, 
and I doubt not her hat was on my head the wrong 
side before—though that mistake would not easily be 
found out nowadays. 

I seized the cage from Annie as she came back 
from a fruitless, or rather birdless, errand, and half 
flew into one house after another. In one garden 
I saw him fly over the fence into the garden be¬ 
yond, and I dashed out of that house in such a 
manner that I am pretty sure the cook thanked her 


316 


The End of Tiptoe's Tale . 


stars she was rid of me so easily. But in the next 

yard there was a flock of sparrows, which flew 

quickly away as I approached, and I never shall 

know whether Tip had deserted into that army or 
not. How many dry leaves I cautiously approached, 
thinking each one in succession might be my recre¬ 
ant darling!—for you know I told you before that 
Tiptoe was a dark bird. Well, you see I couldn’t 
keep up the search all the afternoon, and I went 

home very melancholy indeed. I sent, however, in 
my place a nice little telegraph boy to a great many 
houses in the vicinity toward which the bird had 
flown. 

That night we put out two cages in conspicuous 
places, with doors temptingly wide open, and allur¬ 
ing seed and water, and I spent a great many mo¬ 
ments in watching those cages and thinking of the 
pretty fellow who owned them both; for you must 
know that Tip was a prosperous bird, and had gained 
money lately in the following way: A small ship 
of mine had come in, and I determined to put some 
of the money it brought into the savings-bank for 
Baby. It occurred to me that Tip might feel hurt 
and jealous if he had no share in Baby’s good-for¬ 
tune, and so, as I had not the face to have a bank¬ 
book made out in Tiptoe’s name, I consulted the 
color of his plumage and decided to buy a more 
becoming abode for him. With his funds, therefore, 


The End of Tiptoes Tale . 317 

I had purchased a charming gilt cage with all the mod¬ 
ern improvements, and Tip seemed delighted with it. ■ 
Meanwhile the old one was left empty for repairs, 
and the bill announcing “ To Let ” had not been 
put up when the owner left for parts unknown. 

All the next long day Little Sister was continu¬ 
ally leaving her dolls to “ just see if may be Tip hadn’t 
come home,” and indeed I was quite as restless as 
she, and accomplished very little sewing. One 
thought weighed on our minds painfully, and Little 
Sister expressed the feeling of the household when 
she said, “ When Arthur gets over the measles, and 
comes down-stairs again, how will he feel to find no 
Tippy in the nursery?” For the fact is, Arthur was 
Tip’s master, and had owned him ever since he was 
a baby-bird, declaring when Tiptoe was first on ex¬ 
hibition one Christmas morning that “ a bird was 
the most beautiful animal God ever made! ” So as 
the feverish, sick boy must not be made more rest¬ 
less than the measles could make him, we agreed 
to tell him nothing of the sad story till he was 
well. 

This was not the only painful thought in my 
heart, for I lay awake at night thinking over Tip’s 
unaccustomed terrors of hunger, cold, and fatigue, 
and, worse than all, the quarrelsome, noisy sparrows 
who have succeeded in driving all weaker birds from 
this city. All the same, however, though I ima- 


318 The End of Tiptoe'.s Tale . 

gined him as having perished in unequal combat with 
the fierce, warlike sparrows, for a week after Tip’s 
flight I carefully scanned all the sparrows, single or 
in flocks, whenever I met them in the vicinity of 
our house. Alas! I need not say that my anxious 
eyes were never gladdened by a sight of my be¬ 
loved truant in company with these small vagabonds. 

And Baby, what do you suppose he felt and 

thought? When any of us said, “Where’s Tip?” 
he would look eagerly at the picture*frames and all 
the accustomed perching-places, pointing with his 
little finger, and murmuring an unintelligible remark; 
and if we said, with a falling inflection, “ Tip’s gone 
away! ” his distress was unmistakable ; his lip would 
curl, and he would utter a peculiar, fretful cry. 

That Baby mourned his beautiful little playmate no 
one could doubt. At last I had the cages, old and 
new, carefully cleaned and put out of sight; for 
they made us feel somewhat as an empty cradle 

does when its little occupant has spread its wings 

and flown away. 


Now, children, when a reader is in the midst of 
an exciting novel, he will often come upon a row 
of periods like these, put there to let him know 
that something surprising may be expected. And so 
I put these here for you, as I would not desire 
your hearts to beat as trippingly as mine did when, 



The End of Tiptoe's Tale . 319 

after eight days had passed sadly away, I was 
startled by Annie’s voice one morning, saying: 

“ Indade, ma’am, the cook in the house three 
houses beyant, not counting the church, just the 
contrary to what we went th’ other day, has a 
burrud that came to the kitchen windy kilt with 
the hunger and cold a week ago, an’ it’s a lady 
stopped me claning the parlor-window to say the 
same! ” 

Not waiting for any more explanations, I ran for 
the cage and filled the seed-box, while Little Sister 
clapped her hands over her mouth and rocked back¬ 
wards and forwards, “ to keep her heart from beat¬ 
ing so fast,” she said. Good-natured Annie seized 
the cage and ran off to the house “ three houses 
beyant,” and Little Sister and I held each other’s 
hands and said, “ What if—?” in a kind of rapture, 
till presently Annie was heard coming up to the 
nursery, when I snatched Baby off the floor, and, 
with Little Sister just ahead, ran to the door and 
met—yes, Tip ! as pretty, charming, and saucy as 
ever; a little indignant at being brought through the 
street in such a rapid and unceremonious fashion, 
but otherwise just as if he had never left the nur¬ 
sery ! Baby poked his fingers through the gilt wires, 
and was greeted with pecks and flutterings. He 
giggled and said, “ Ah, dar, dar,” in a very loud 
tone, showed all his teeth (which are four, and two 


320 


The End of Tiptoe's Tale. 


coming); in short, he was a happy baby, and evi¬ 
dently took in the exact situation. As for Tip, the 
instant the door was opened he flew out, went first 
to one, then another of us, till all had been greeted, 
got up a tremendous romp in Little Sister’s baby- 
house with Baby, eating crackers off the table, and 
even out of Baby’s mouth, and when that young 
gentleman hid the disputed morsel in the doll’s cra¬ 
dle, Tip perched on the rim and allowed himself to 
be rocked within an inch of nervous headache with¬ 
out losing his balance or his temper. 

If ever a bird felt like a boarding-school boy 
come home again, that bird was Tip. I wish I 
could tell you how he helped me regulate my but¬ 
ton and spool drawer a day or two after, running 
off with buttons or beads till I found I spent half 
my time in chasing him to get them back; and 
how pleased he was with his convalescent young 
master’s whittling, running “ double-quick ” after the 
splinters as they flew from the knife-blade, and de¬ 
fying those that hit him on the back with open 
mouth and angry chirp. But my paper is almost 
full, and I want to say a few words to some of 
the older friends who have asked me to tell how I 
tamed my canary. 

In regard to that, I hardly know how to give 
any rule for it. My human birds moult so often 
that my days are quite occupied with furnishing 


The End of Tiptoe's Tale. 


321 


feathers for them, so that I really have given no 
set time to taming the little subject of these sketches. 
The only law I know is the one we use for all 
home training—that of love. Plenty of kind words 
in gentle tones, numberless caresses, and a very few 
judicious crumbs of sugar; opportunity to fly often 
around a room not too fine for bird or baby—in 
short, a great deal of liberty. You will see from 
the story that I do not understand liberty to be 
represented by an open window; that borders on 
license and destroys liberty! 

And now little Tiptoe begs leave to make his 
best bow before an indulgent audience, and to re¬ 
tire to private life. 








TREASURES 


FROM 


FAIRY LAND. 




































































CONTENTS. 

VOL. II. 


Pagb. 

The Poet’s Pets ......... 5 

Parrots. 15 

A Diplomatic Parrot . . 27 

An Old Family Friend ........ 39 

The Story of a Horse . 57 

A Harrowing Recital. 69 

Mac’s Ride.77 

Something about Toads.87 

A Couple of Queer Little Customers .... 99 

Farm-Yard FriLnds.109 

The Five Little Sisters of Maple Lawn . . . .123 

The Peri. 145 

Bob: his Life and Death.155 

Master Tom’s Experiment . . . . . . .165 

Waif. . . . .175 























































































































THE POET’S PETS. 






















- 

















































part of that State there is a certain village; and in that 
village there is a pretty cottage ; and in that cottage there 
is a poet; and in that poet there is a great, good, gentle 
heart, that makes him love all grand and beautiful things, 
pity all who suffer, or are in any way ill used, and feel a 
kindly sympathy with all the innocent or quaint little 
creatures that God has made. He writes very grandly of 
summer s splendor, of winter’s storms, of the breaking of 


7 





































8 


THE POET’S PETS. 


the great sea on the lonely beach ; but he seems to see 
God’s providence as plainly in the quiet lives of familiar 
animals as in the changing seasons, to hear his voice as 
clearly in the carol of the robin as in the surge of the 
ocean. The swallow flying south preaches faith and obe¬ 
dience for him ; and the little snow-bird’s twitter says 
plainly, “ Give us this day our daily bread 

It has been my happiness to visit often at this cottage, 
and to see just how this great poet lives, — not with his 
head in the clouds above us all, but in sympathy with the 
humblest, most every-day sort of people, if they be but only 
good and true. He is simple in all his ways, and perfectly 
comprehensible in his talk, I assure you. 

On one of these visits, years ago, I was greatly amused 
by a pretty white and gray kitten (a pet of the poet’s), 
which he had somehow brought under loving subjection to 
his authority. She would follow him about from room 
to room in a very feeling but unfeline way, and seemed to 
understand every word he addressed to her. She would 
sit on his desk when he was writing poetry, and purr and 
wink knowingly when he got off a good verse, as though 
she were his little mews , and deserved half the credit. 
Sometimes the poet would lay her out on the carpet, straight 
on her back, and, closing her eyes, tell her to lie there per- 


THE POET’S PETS. 


9 


fectly still; then he would leave the room for several 
minutes. There she would lie, playing dead, her paws 
folded on her white breast, and a peaceful expression on 
her countenance, till her master would come back and recall 
her to life. So perfectly did the little creature simulate 
death (or a cat aleptic trance), that only an almost impercep¬ 
tible quiver in the tip of her tail betrayed her. That tail 
was a tell-tale. 

On subsequent visits, I found at the poet’s house a hand¬ 
some parrot, from Australia I believe, and the real hero of 
this story. Charlie was his name; and he was a very gallant¬ 
looking fellow indeed, in a sort of dove-colored uniform, 
turned up with scarlet, and with feathers brilliant enough 
for a field-marshal. He was not distinguished for general 
amiability, — few of the parrot family are ; but he was cer¬ 
tainly a remarkably quaint and knowing bird. In his early 
parrot-hood, I doubt if his parents expected to raise such 
a prodigy of cleverness. If they could have foreseen that 
he would be one day the companion of a great poet, they 
would have thought it a fine thing — for the poet. 

Charlie was not kept confined to a cage or perch, but 
had usually the freedom of the house; though he was 
rather mischievous, and decidedly discourteous to such 
visitors as he happened to take a pique against. He had 


IO 


THE POET’S PETS. 


the dislike, peculiar, I think, to parrots, of bare feet; and 
woe to the village boy or girl, or Irish servant-maid, who 
ventured to appear in his august presence unshod and 
unhosed ! He would begin by circling round and round 
the offender, softly, slowly reconnoitring the position, then 
suddenly pounce on the foot or ankle, and nip and pinch in 
the most vindictive and remorseless manner. One day a 
stranger from the rural districts called to see the poet, who 
is a quiet, studious man, and that morning happened to be 
particularly engaged in his study. Yet he had not the 
heart to deny himself to a visitor, who perhaps had come a 
long way to see him, but did his best to make him feel 
welcome and at ease. After all, the conversation was rather 
constrained on both sides, and the morning was passing 
rather heavily, when the poet happened to notice that the 
stranger — a tall young man, if I remember rightly—kept 
“ changing base,” by crossing first one leg, and then the 
other, over its fellow, and that in so doing he had worked his 
light linen trousers up toward the knee, and left exposed 
above the short stocking a considerable undefended terri¬ 
tory of leg. Scarcely had the poet noted this latter cir¬ 
cumstance, when his mischievous familiar Charlie came 
tiptoeing into the study from the porch, and paused for a 
moment, with his head on one side, regarding the stranger 


THE POET’S PETS. 


with no very friendly expression in his cold, sly, wicked 
little eyes, as much as to say, “ Here’s another bore come 
to besiege my master ! ” Suddenly he caught sight of that 
tempting piece of undressed calf, and, before the benevo¬ 
lent poet could intervene, made a desperate onslaught, 
pitching in like a little avenging genius of the study. 
With a startled scream, the tall stranger leaped into the 
air, shaking off Charlie, who coolly tripped away to his 
perch, laughing like a hobgoblin ; and the poet noted with 
horror that there was blood upon his beak! The tall 
stranger soon took his leave ; and it is to be presumed, that, 
after this experience, his visits were made shorter, or his 
trousers longer. 

On summer mornings Charlie liked to sit on his perch 
on the sunny piazza, and hail the passers-by. It was his 
way of seeing life, and keeping up his importance in society. 
Sometimes the school-children would tease him by too great 
familiarity; then he would scold dreadfully, but I never 
heard him use profane language. It is more than likely that 
he had picked up a few oaths from the sailor-talk on ship¬ 
board, or in cities through which he had passed, for he was 
a parrot that had seen the world ; but the example of this 
sober and gentle household had told on him, and his speech 
was blameless, though his spirit was yet unregenerate. 


12 


THE POET’S PETS. 


One morning, when some lads, pausing on their way to 
school, were shouting to him over the paling, he heard the 
nine-o’clock bell, and called out, “ Be off, boys ! The bell 
rings.” 

Charlie was fond of making explorations about the house 
and garden, and grew daily more independent and adven¬ 
turous in his habits. At last he made his way up the water¬ 
spout, or some vines, to the roof of the house, where he 
screamed and laughed, hopped and danced, and cut up vari¬ 
ous delirious didos. Next his “ vaulting ambition ” carried 
him to the top of the highest chimney; from which point 
of vantage he shrieked yet more defiantly, and laughed more 
mockingly, and, in fact, “ sassed ” the whole town. Every 
pleasant day he would resort to this lofty perch, and, right 
in sight of the Friends’ meeting-house, indulge in such 
unquakerly antics, in such boastful and unprofitable talk, 
that it is a wonder the quiet neighborhood was not scandal¬ 
ized. One luckless day, however, Charlie the bold, while 
engaged in some of his mad pranks on the narrow coping 
of the chimney, lost his balance, and fell down into the dark 
chasm beneath ; at least, so it was supposed, but no one 
witnessed the catastrophe. It was only known that Char¬ 
lie had disappeared, that he did not come for his rations, or 
return to his perch at night. The room, from the fireplace 


THE POET’S PETS. 


13 


of which the tall chimney led, was not used at this time: 
so, in the long and careful search that was made for the lost 
parrot, nobody thought of looking there. Indeed, he ha'd 
not fallen into the fireplace, but had lodged in a narrow part 
of the chimney, about half way up, and, it seems, was not 
enough of a “ sweep ” to make his way out. At length, 
when he had been gone three or four days, and his anxious 
friends had given up looking for him, supposing him to 
have been stolen by gypsies, or to have ru$ away to seek 
his fortune, and all the household except the cat was in 
mourning for him, the poet, happening to enter the unused 
parlor, heard a faint, familiar voice, away up in the chim¬ 
ney, crying, “ Poor Charlie ! ” He went to the fireplace, 
removed the board, and looked up to where a dingy little 
object intercepted his view of the blue sky. It was the lost 
parrot! I do not remember just how they released the 
unfortunate bird ; but I think they let down a basket by a 
rope, and he got into it, and was drawn out. All the way 
up he pitied himself, and bemoaned his fate, and all the 
way down into the study continued his sad plaint. When 
he saw his master, he wailed out afresh, “Poor Charlie !” 
and then, “ Charlie wants water.” Water was given him, 
and cracker, and,every delicacy adapted to his condition; 
and all the household rejoiced over him, except the cat; 


H 


THE POET’S PETS. 


but every thing failed to comfort him. He would look at 
his sooty feathers, and his dilapidated tail, and keep up his 
mournful refrain, “ Poor Charlie! poor Charlie!” He was 
washed and smoothed, and put comfortably to perch ; but 
in the morning he was as dolorous as ever, — a regular 
Jeremiah of a parrot. He never held up his scarlet-tufted 
head in the old saucy, pert way again. It seemed that black 
chimney had been to him as a perpendicular “ Valley of the 
Shadow of Death ; ” for, after emerging from it, he grew so 
meek and serious-minded, I really believe that a whole 
Sunday-school procession of barefooted boys and girls could 
have passed his perch without his making a single sally 
upon them. He never laughed much, or mocked, or 
boasted any more; but became quite a model bird, and 
made a very good end at last. 

His death did not produce a very profound sensation in 
the community, though, doubtless, he had been used to 
think that he kept the dull old town going ; and, though 
much speaking h^d been his sole gift, he had no soul to 
speak of. Yet I doubt not the great poet felt something 
of tropical brightness, something pf pleasant humor and 
weird companionship, something qf dear association, pass 
out of his life when poor Charlie died. 


PARROTS. 


























































- 



















































PARROTS. 


CONFESS to a curious and spinster-like 
interest in parrots, — those absurd little bur¬ 
lesques, those feathered parodies upon human¬ 
ity. Nothing in animated nature so inclines 
me to accept, as something more than poetic fancies, the 
old Greek fables of human souls in the bodies of animals. 
In such forms might be very fittingly lodged the inconsider¬ 
able souls of idle gossips and dull pedants, to be mercilessly 
questioned and drilled in tiresome iteration in their turn. 

Then, again, they appear to me rather originals than 
parodies. So quaint, so wise and old, are they, it would 
seem that they antedate humanity. Is it not possible that 
they originally served as experiments of Nature, — as little 
models, to contain the peculiar vocal machinery of speech, 



2 * 


17 




i 8 


PARROTS. 


some of those delicate chords and pipes th&t were to be 
perfected in the human organism ? 

So, also, may not many of the other qualities and facul¬ 
ties of man have found partial expression and embodiment 
in ‘the lower animal kingdom, dimly foreshadowing the 
last and highest creation ? 

As, while human folly and sin did not exist, grotesque 
and horrible monsters prefigured them ; so splendid wild 
creatures were brave and enduring, so winged lovers were 
mated, so mute mothers gloated over their young, so 
antlered leaders died for the herd, while manly heroism 
and devotion, womanly tenderness, the sacred rapture of 
Mary’s maternity, the passion of Christ, were yet em¬ 
bosomed in God. 

But this is a rather serious and speculative beginning 
for what I intended to be only a light and merry chronicle 
of parrot sayings and doings. 

The State of Iowa, among many remarkable things, 
boasts a very remarkable parrot, about whose story there 
is something quite romantic and mysterious. A farmer in 
the southern part of the State was once driving through 
a lonely wood, when he heard a strange, shrill voice calling, 
“ Stop ! stop ! Hold up ! hold up ! ” 

So imperative was the command, that the farmer checked 


PARROTS. 


l 9 . 

his horses, looked eagerly around, and then above him, as 
the voice seemed to come from over his head. For some 
moments he saw nothing; then, far up in a tall oak that 
overhung the road, he perceived a large green parrot, 
which was rapidly letting itself down from branch to 
branch, keeping up its shrill cry of “ Stop! stop! Hold 
up ! hold up! ” At last the bird dropped from the lowest 
limb on to the shoulder of the farmer, and nestled up 
against his face, with the immemorial parrot-plaint of 
“ Poor Poll! Poll wants cracker ! ” 

The farmer, though almost afraid of the queer bird so 
strangely encountered, assured her of protection, and car¬ 
ried her home, where she created a profound sensation, 
where she was well fed, and kindly cared for in every way, 
and where she has ever since remained an admired and a 
respected member of the family-circle. She soon de¬ 
veloped rare talents, and revealed varied acquirements, and 
her fame spread far and wide. She was evidently a bird 
that had seen the world ; for her conversation revealed the 
fact of extensive travel, and of recent life on shipboard, 
judging by certain naughty nautical expressions unbecom¬ 
ing her sex. It was thought, from her dialect, that she was 
of English breeding, hailing from Yorkshire; and it was 
supposed that she had made her escape from some Mor- 


20 


PARROTS. 


mon emigrant-train, the wood in which she was found 
being on the direct route to Utah. Not taking to the faith 
of Joseph, she had chosen rather to run her chances 
among the Gentiles, than to enter the Canaan of the 
saints. The old religion, she decided, was good enough 
for her. It was the one she had been taught to swear by, 
and she was not prepared to turn tail on it now. She may 
have had her own objections to making one of a harem of 
chattering parrakeets, to being “ sealed ” to some Brigham 
Young of an old macaw. The very term “ pol-ygamy ” 
may have alarmed her. 

The farmer has, in his fine home-flock, a pair of twin 
boys, so wonderfully alike in form, size, face, complexion, 
expression, and voice, that, at sight of them, strangers 
often rub their eyes in anxious bewilderment, thinking that 
the infirmity of double-sight has befallen them. Father, 
mother, brothers, and sisters are often deceived in these 
little Dromios ; and amusing mistakes and misunderstand¬ 
ings are constantly occurring. When a piece of mischief 
is done by one, the real offender can never be accurately 
fixed upon, unless he “ ’fess,” or his double turn state’s 
evidence. It generally lies between the two ; and if John 
is true to Joe, and Joe to John, they both escape. They 
are usually whipped and kissed, fed and physicked, at 


PARROTS. 


21 


random. It is believed, in the household, that John is the 
eldest of the twins by about thirty minutes ; and he greatly 
prides himself on that dignity in the family. On going to 
rest at night, he is careful to “lay his garments by” in a 
particular spot, and always to take the front side of the 
bed, lest he may awake in the morning Joe, and lose his 
birthright without knowing it. 

But, strange to say, all this marvellous resemblance, this 
almost identity, has been, from the first, “ no let ” to Polly. 
With a sort of clairvoyance, she is always able instantly to 
distinguish between them. She proves this unerring 
instinct of apprehension in a marked and peculiar manner. 
To John, on first acquaintance, she took a violent antipa¬ 
thy, to Joe a most tender fancy; and has never been 
known to confound for a moment the object of her ani¬ 
mosity with the hero of her maiden adoration. 

The friend who relates this story to me says that he 
once incited these little hawk-eyed Gemini to a sham fight, 
in order to observe the effect on the enamoured Polly, whose 
cage-door was set open. At the first hostile demonstration 
against her favorite, she sallied forth, and pitched in, nip¬ 
ping and clawing at John’s bare shins, beating with her 
wings, scolding like a fish-woman, and, I am shocked to 
say, swearing like a sea-captain. When John fell back, 


22 


PARROTS. 


leaving Joe master of the field, great indeed was her tri¬ 
umph ; she laughed and huzzaed, and strutted back to 
her perch as proud as the Queen of Palmyra after an 
apparently victorious sally against the Romans. 

Our farmer has a daughter, of a comely countenance and 
a courtable age; and this fair maid has a certain favored 
admirer, whose Sunday-evening visits to her cause a little 
pleasant excitement among the younger members of the 
family, — an excitement which even ruffles Polly’s feathers, 
and the drift of which she seems, in some weird, inexplic¬ 
able way, to have divined. On the occasion of the first 
memorable visit of this suitor, as he was sitting, very little 
at his ease, in the parlor, with a very red face, though the 
room was not overheated, with hands and feet that wouldn’t 
keep still, and a heart that outbeat his watch, saying unut¬ 
terable things with his eyes to the object of his worship, 
now and then dropping from dry lips a husky remark 
about the corn-crop and the weather, which was briefly 
and demurely responded to from the other side of the fire¬ 
place, there suddenly entered, through a door softly open¬ 
ing from the hall, Mistress Polly. She came tripping 
daintily along, peering curiously at the young couple with 
her head on one side, out of “ the tail of her eye,” in a 
queer, quizzical way, peculiar to her kind. She walked 


PARROTS. 


23 


deliberately round the blushing stranger, whose appearance 
did not seem to inspire her with the profoundest respect, 
for she presently broke out in a peal of the wildest laugh¬ 
ter, then shouting, “ Oh ! what a beau, what a beau ! ” ran 
from the room chuckling and screaming. 

The family made a great mystery of this incident, declar¬ 
ing Polly’s knowingness and wit quite supernatural; but / 
should like to know something of the whereabouts and 
doings of the twins on that evening ! 

I have a pleasant friend in a pleasant town in New 
England, who, good woman, rejoices in many good gifts of 
Providence and sea-captains, among them being a parrot 
of great cleverness, “ credit, and renown.” This remark¬ 
able bird not only resembles her mistress in conversational 
powers, but in social feeling. She is very fond of com¬ 
pany, and, whenever a neighbor calls, will greet him or her 
with the most condescending cordiality, bustling up and 
down her cage, and calling out right cheerily, “ How de 
do ? Take a chair ! Glad to see you.” 

Occasionally these invitations are a little awkward and 
malapropos; but, as a general thing, Polly acts as the 
feathered proxy of her mistress, “ on hospitable cares 
intent,” like another Yankee parrot I once heard of, who, 
on the dropping-in of a certain nice, gossipping old lady, 


24 


PARROTS. 


always sung out, “ Brought your knitting ? Stay to tea > 
Molly, put the kettle on ! ” 

My friend bears a name made judicially illustrious by 
one of the original woman’s-rights women, and classical 
by modern dramatic genius, — that of “ Deborah ; ” but 
in her family, and wide circle of friends, she is called, 
perhaps from something off-hand, jolly, and debonair 
about her, just “Deb.” She is even “Deb” to her 
parrot, in which small friend and merry gossip she has 
great delight. 

My friend is musical, plays the piano, and sings about 
every thing going; and Polly usually listens very com¬ 
placently, with the grave, absorbed air of a critic. But, 
on one occasion, the lady was, from a cold, out of 
voice, or the bird was out of temper, or both: certain it is, 
that, before the first verse of a popular ballad was finished, 
Polly shrieked out in disgust, “ Oh, dear! dry up, Deb, dry 
up! ” 

As far as I know them, the members of the Parrot 
family are usually of a lively and diverting disposition, 
though some are far from amiable, honest, or loving; but I 
know a parrot who is so mournful and solemn a bird, that 
he reminds one of an undertaker, or- a parson of the grim 
old Calvinistic type. He speaks in a peculiarly sepulchral 


PARROTS. 


25 


voice, that startles and chills one, suggesting the opening 
line of a certain mournful hymn, — 

“ Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound.” 

This funereal fowl, in the midst of a happy, beautiful, 
luxurious home, seems to serve a purpose like that of the 
skeleton at the feasts of the ancients, there is such a 
gloomy awfulness, such melancholy memento-mori-ness , 
about his aspect, as well as his speech. When that 
lugubrious bird was hatched, some Heraclitus must 
have died. 

3 





































A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 















































A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 



MONG the many attractions of 
the hospitable Washington resi¬ 
dence of Mr. Seward, late Sec¬ 
retary of State, we bird-lovers 
classed the parrots and the beau¬ 
tiful parrakeets. Of all these, the 
most piquant, lively, and reliable 
entertainer was a certain stately 
old parrot, in a handsome livery 
of green and scarlet, — the sec¬ 
retary’s own particular pet and 
gossip. This remarkable bird was, and 
I trust is, though in a new home, and 
under a new administration, a right “ merry 
old soul,” approachable and condescending, 
social, loquacious, and little liable to the 
provoking moods and sulks, the contra- 
rious and cantankerous ways peculiar to 
his race. 


29 




30 


A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 


His cage usually hung in the pleasant little library open¬ 
ing off the hall, where he watched the incomings and out¬ 
goings of the household ; 'where he saw the visitors who 
dropped in informally; where he heard their light gossip, 
their hurried business talk, or their grave inquiries or argu¬ 
ments on affairs of state. In political discussions, when¬ 
ever they grew at all stormy, he especially delighted, and 
seldom failed to mingle ; .royally riding on the storm, and 
loyally echoing his distinguished master’s sentiments, or 
helping to laugh his opponents down. 

That laugh of his is the most startlingly human sound I 
ever heard from the throat of a bird. It is frightfully 
funny. 

Some time last summer, while the window near which 
his cage stood was kept open, the parrot was attracted by 
the vocal exercises of an infant next door, one of those 
cherubic babes that “ continually do cry ; ” and at length 
he startled the family by an imitation so dolorously perfect 
that it was feared some poor little castaway had somehow 
been smuggled into the house. At another time his 
master was afflicted with a cough, and immediately his 
faithful “ ancient ” had symptoms of bronchitis. 

Certain voices were sure to excite his emulation or his 
antipathy. On one occasion, when Senator Sumner was 


A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 


3r 

discussing some political question with Mr. Seward, not 
by any means taking pains to “ roar him gently,” the parrot 
became fearfully excited, and, I was told, actually screamed 
him down with all sorts of unparliamentary hootings and 
catcalls. There may have been something particularly dis¬ 
turbing to parrot complacency in the orotund, autocratical 
voice of the distinguished senator from Massachusetts, 
provoking that irreverent fowl to laugh at his radical pro- 
nunciamentoes, whistle at his stately periods, and cough in 
the midst of a Latin quotation. It may have been his 
private opinion that a senate of spirited parrots would long 
ago have rebelled against a voice of that exasperating and 
ex-cathedra quality. 

Of late years the politics of this wonderful bird have 
probably been of the conservative type ; but I doubt not 
he has sown his own wild oats of radicalism. I doubt not 
there was a time when such phrases as “ The Irrepressible 
Conflict ” — grand words which came from the lips of the 
great statesman, crammed with prophecy and power—were 
caught up by his familiar, and valorously reiterated, defying 
the unbelief and policy of the hour. And I think it very 
likely there was a period, when, sitting nodding and wink¬ 
ing on his perch, in the midst of confusion and dread, the 
bird’s cheery refrain was, “Ninety days, ninety days.” 


32 


A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 


Perhaps, still later, he talked persistently and knowingly 
of “ Reconstruction,” “ Amnesty,” “ Alabama claims,” 
and “Alaska.” 

Yet, affable and communicative as he seems, there has 
always been about this parrot a certain air of mystery; a 
wise, sly look, keen, observant, “ 'cute; ” a something re¬ 
served, self-contained, diplomatic. He was like a feathered 
despatch-bag, or secretary’s portfolio, actually swelling with 
state secrets. I feel assured that his astute master must 
have debarred from his presence all newspaper reporters 
lest, in some unguarded moment, hints of great enterprises 
and important treaties should drop untimely from his bill. 

This clever parrot has a female companion ; a pretty, 
amiable-looking bird, whose cage used to stand close beside 
his, and with whom he seemed to be on excellent terms, 
showing her, in his lofty way, marks of “ distinguished con¬ 
sideration.” Madame seldom talks, but she sings finely, is 
truly a feathered prima do7ina of extraordinary talent; yet 
she seldom sings alone, preferring to join with her friend 
in astonishing musical performances. From the tranquil 
character of the intercourse of this pair, from the fact of 
her silence, and his politeness, I infer that their relations 
are not matrimonial. A Platonic sentiment unites them 
in a peaceful and philosophic friendship, — F'ranklin and 


A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 


33 


the widow of Helvetius, Chateaubriand and Madame R6- 
camier. 

I once took some merry children to see these marvellous 
parrots. It was a dreary winter day, in the fag-end of 
Johnson’s administration ; and we found them alone, and 
quite in the dumps, considering their freedom from cares 
and perplexities, domestic and political. Our coming evi¬ 
dently brightened and inspired them, for they went through 
their entire 1 'epertoire for our amusement. M. Parrot 
laughed, coughed, whistled, cried, and asked repeatedly after 
our health. Mme. Parrot listened well pleased, plumed 
herself, bustled about, ate the cake we offered her, drank to 
our health, and graciously informed us that she was “ Pretty 
Polly.” 

The children sung for them a verse of “ Cornin’ through 
the Rye.” Both paid rapt attention, and, after one repetition, 
reproduced the air with really wonderful accuracy. Madame, 
though her manner seemed to say, “ By your leave, Mon¬ 
sieur P.,” proved herself the best singer by far, having in 
her voice some tones strangely human. 

A cage of lovely South-American parrakeets were brought 
into the library, and placed besjde them. The parrots 
regarded them very complacently, but, on our appearing too 
much absorbed by them, showed signs of impatience and 


34 


A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 


displeasure, and redoubled their efforts to please and 
astonish us. 

While thus on exhibition, one of the pretty parrakeets 
having, it may be, her little head turned by excitement, was 
seized by sudden vertigo or fit, staggered, and tumbled for¬ 
ward on her beak, then went ploughing over the carpet, 
round and round, in a most distressing way. But I am 
sorry to say that those superior creatures, the parrots, 
showed no alarm at this small epileptic attack, and no joy 
at the recovery of the little sufferer. While it fluttered 
most wildly about, head down and tail up, Madame betrayed, 
perhaps, a mild interest; but Monsieur whistled coolly on. 

“ What was Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 

That he should weep for her ? ” 

The secretary’s parrot, like the secretary himself, has a 
wonderful memory. He has always been fond of a certain 
lovable lady, connected with the family; and during the 
early part of the war, when he frequently heard the “ Song 
of John Brown,” he took the fancy to hail the sight of her 
by invariably singing out, “ Glory, glory, hallelujah ! ” as the 
only adequate expression of his fervent delight. This 
lady, after an absence of some years, lately visited the 
secretary ; and, immediately on her entering the library, 


A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 


35 


her friend in green and scarlet gave a joyous laugh, 
and shouted out the old greeting, “ Glory, glory, halle¬ 
lujah I ” 

Ah ! what persons and what scenes may not this strange 
little creature remember ! Once, when regarding him with 
the peculiar, curious interest I have in his kind, while he 
sat for a few minutes quite silent and motionless, perhaps 
dreaming, pondering, remembering, I asked myself such 
questions as these : “ Does he ever faintly recall a time of 
hurry and alarm in this household, when the beloved master 
was brought home hurt, and borne up those stairs ; when 
every morning he missed his great friend’s kindly salutation 
as something pleasant taken out of his narrow life ? Does 
he recall the incessant coming and going of doctors 
and visitors for many days ? Does he remember one 
hurried, long, yet weary step in the hall; one pale, 
worn, homely face, looking in upon him; one kindly 
voice, which gave him jolly greetings now and then ? 
Is he never visited by confused memories of one dreadful 
night, when there came an awful unbidden guest, stealing 
up, and leaping down those stairs; when there were wild 
cries, and the sounds of mortal struggle, above him ; when 
that house almost rocked with the shock of a great tragedy ? 
Did the bird sleep as usual, that night, when the very air 


36 


A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 


seemed to shudder with terror, and the winds to cry to all 
the city,— 

“ Sleep no more ! 

Treason does murder sleep” ? 

The creature seemed certainly to possess something very 
like affection; and I could but ask myself, “ Is it not 
possible that he sometimes recalls a sweet, gracious house¬ 
hold presence, martyred and sainted, one who moved softly, 
spoke gently, and had a kindly word for all ? that he may 
still watch and wait for yet another, a fair young girl, to 
whose prematurely sad thoughts his merry mockeries gave 
sometimes pleasant diversions ? ” 

Who can tell ? The bird-life has mysteries upon which 
we may not trench. But evidently the tragedy that has 
made that house historical, and the sorrow that has rendered 
it sacred, did not greatly depress his spirit, or darken his 
views of life. He was almost always merry and jocund ; 
and the sad conditions of human mortality seemed to touch 
him but lightly. 

He is gone now, with his master, and his master’s beloved 
family; and, before that hospitable mansion on Lafayette 
Square, the memorial sentinel stalks no more. 

Wherever thou art now, prince of parrots and gossips, I 
greet thee lovingly! 


A DIPLOMATIC PARROT. 


3 7 


“ Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert! ” 

Peace go with thee, and with thy master; who, whatever 
men may grant or deny him, however partisans may differ 
as to his political course, certainly possessed, in an eminent 
degree, “ the genius to be loved ; ” who bore joy and sor¬ 
row, success and failure, glory and detraction, with rare 
dignity, cheerfulness, and philosophy. 

If at times when momentous and solemn issues were to 
be met,—at times of peril and excitement, — this dignity 
seemed even to his old friends like cool indifference, this 
cheerfulness like political persiflage , this philosophy too 
like an easy optimism, there was no unkindness in our 
hearts, as there was no reproach in our thoughts. What¬ 
ever he may think, we are not forgetful of his great past. 

Where he went on that first long holiday of his busy life, 
to the other half of our Siamesed continent, to visit the 
South-American empires and republics, and to the great 
countries of the round globe, it is pleasant to remember 
that cordial welcomes, and most honorable entertainment, 
proved that his foreign relations had not been purely dip¬ 
lomatic. 

Did the favorite parrot go with him as courier, or did he 
have a secretary-bird ? 


4 













































































. 
















. 










































































AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 






































> 


































' 


















































AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


A STORY TOLD FOR A POET. 

DO not remember, my dear and gracious 
friend, that among the family stories and 
anecdotes to which you lent an indulgent ear 
in “ the days that are no more/' — when, 
perhaps, we rested from summer rambles on the hills 

above A-, or on the lovely banks of the Merrimack ; 

river and shore shimmering in the golden autumn sun¬ 
light ; or when, “ snow-bound,” we sat around the open fire 

in the pleasant little library, the dear mother, E-, and 

you, and I, — I do not remember that I ever told you of 
the noble old dog, whose memory with us has been ten- 



4 * 









42 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


dcrly cherished for many years, whose life has grown into 
a beautiful family tradition; for, you see, he lived and 
died before your friend G. G. was born, a long time ago, 
for she is — but no matter! 

It may be — as you well knew that I was to be a dear 
lover of the race in general, and that to mention any mem¬ 
ber of the Canina family was to set me off on a dog-trot of 
wonderful anecdote and reminiscence — that you always 
bore in mind the hospitable Pompeiian warning, “ Cave 
Canem ,” and adroitly pushed the idle drift of my talk clear 
of Newfoundland and Skye ; and so I never got to tell you 
the story of dear old Bose. But is it too late now ? To 
lift the character and fortunes of a poor dog up to the 
level of a poet’s sympathies may seem to many a very 
ambitious and difficult undertaking ; but we know better. 

Now, let us begin the story in the regular, orthodox 
way: — 

One tempestuous winter evening, in the year 18—, a 
merry and loving family circle closed about a deep, old- 
fashioned fireplace, in a large brown house, on the high 

street of the beautiful village of B-, in the State of 

Connecticut. In the centre of this circle sat the father, 
a man yet in the full vigor of life, and of a sweet and 
gracious presence. He was the village physician. Beside 



AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


43 


him sat his wife, a true gentlewoman, with a baby on her 
knee ; and as .near to him as they could conveniently 
get were his three sons, — fine, promising boys, destined' 
to fulfil all they promised. Then, “ if you count girls,” 
there were five fair daughters, including the baby, ranging 
from eighteen years to as many months. The second of 
those daughters, in age, was my mother, from whose lips 
I have learned my little story by heart. 

A furious storm of snow and sleet had been raging for 
some hours, constantly increasing in violence, till the 
stanch house shook on its solid foundations, and the sturdy 
old walnut beside it seemed to cry out in pain and dismay, 
as its limbs were twisted and tortured and broken by the 
cruel nor’easter. 

But above the wild shouts of the tempest, and the wailing 
remonstrance of the trees ; above the good doctor’s pleas¬ 
ant, story-telling voice ; above the laughter and comments 
of the children and mamma’s gentle chiding, was heard, 
in the early evening, the heavy rumble of wheels coming 
up the frozen highway. Then the children, not being 
under very severe discipline, broke ranks and ran to 
the window, through which, after breathing on the panes 
and rubbing vigorously for a while, they could dimly per¬ 
ceive several huge covered vans slowly passing, each drawn 


44 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND, 


by four or five horses. These heavy vehicles were recog¬ 
nized by the children as “Jersey wagons,” then used by 
merchants, as the only means for transporting goods from 
seaport and river towns to all points inland. The children, 
to whom they were familiar objects, beheld them with little 
interest. To them a wagon packed with the merchandise 
of distant continents “a wagon was, and nothing more.” 
Had they been poets, like you and — Mr. Longfellow, they 
might have bethought them how the ends of the earth were 
coming together at the foot of their lawn ; how India, China, 
Araby, and “ the golden South Americas,” were setting in 
upon bleak New England, on that winter night. As it was, 
as soon as the last van had lumbered by, they closed ranks 
again around the fire, with only a few words of kindly com¬ 
miseration for the poor teamsters and horses. But just as 
papa, with a “ Where was I ? ” was about to take up again 
his wondrous story, — one of the “ Arabian Nights’ Enter¬ 
tainments,”— just as his eager listeners were preparing to 
marvel, to laugh, exult, or shudder deliciously, there came 
another interruption. This time it was in the form of a 
timid scratch and a low whine at the outer door. Every 
heart present responded to the piteous appeal; but the good 
doctor spoke before the most impulsive of his children, 
“ It is some poor, stray dog : let him in at once! ” 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


45 


The next moment the door was flung open, and there 
tumbled in, like a small avalanche, a big, shaggy dog ; 
white, with here and there a black spot on his coat, which 
now glittered with snow and ice. He was almost perish¬ 
ing, “ starved with the cold ” as our English cousins say ; 
indeed, so benumbed that he rather crawled than walked to 
the hearth, where he laid himself down, panting and moan¬ 
ing. After becoming a little warmed and rested, he raised 
his head, and glanced with a pair of singularly fine dark 
eyes from face to face, with an expression of the most intent 
and curious observation. He was evidently making up his 
estimate of the family character. Apparently, it was favor¬ 
able ; for after a few moments he rose, and with amiable 
salutes of his handsome white tail, which he waved in air 
like a flag of truce, he passed from one to another of the 
family group, beginning with the doctor, paid his respects, 
and made his acknowledgments. Then the children 
brought him food, which he ate with much apparent relish, 
but, like a well-bred dog, without greediness. Afterward 
he returned thanks in a happy, hearty way, which we 
“ Christian dogs,” as the Mohammedan calls us, would not 
do ill to imitate. Then he was permitted to stretch himself 
before the fire till his shaggy coat was thoroughly dry. 
Indeed, he was allowed to remain on the hearth all that 


46 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


night, as he still showed signs of great exhaustion, and 
frequently shivered, as with vivid recollections of the 
intense cold without. 

In the morning “ Richard was himself again,” strong 
and brisk, and overflowing with the most engaging friend¬ 
liness. Inquiries for the owner of the dog were made 
in several directions, but without result. No one came, 
then or afterward, to claim him. It is very possible that 
the rude teamster, whose faithful thrall he had been, saw in 
the noble and handsome creature only a brute, — some¬ 
thing to swear at, to exact service of, or beat at his pleas¬ 
ure. He certainly never got at the great, loving heart of 
the dog, or he would never have lost him. 

As for the waif, he seemed perfectly contented and hap¬ 
py in his new home; apparently feeling that his roving 
days were over, that it was “ good to be here,” that this was 
the blessed haven to which he had been led through much 
tribulation, steering by the dog-star of his destiny. 

There was no little discussion as to a name for the new 
member of the household. He was put through a long 
and rigorous cross-examination, but would only respond to 
the brief and plebeian dog-nomen of “ Bose.” When they 
came to that, there was an instant affirmative wag of the 
4ul. The children were a little dissatisfied, and proposed 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


4 7 


to re-christen him with something more grand and poetic. 
“ Hector/’ “ Caesar,” “ Nero,” and “ Prince ” were tried'on ; 
but he would have none of them. Nothing fitted him but 
“ Bose ; ” so Bose it was. But at last the name grew to be 
almost beautiful to them, for his dear sake; for he soon 
proved himself to be a dog not only of uncommon clever¬ 
ness and intelligence, almost literally understanding every 
thing that was said to him, but of the most admirable 
character, brave, faithful, and passionately loving. He was 
a most magnanimous creature, never using the power 
which his superior size and strength gave him over 

“ Mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And dogs of low degree,” 

in any unfair or tyrannous way. Especially was he always 
tender and chivalrous toward young children. However 
much those capricious little despots might seek to disturb 
or tease him, infinite patience and graciousness looked 
upon them from out his large brown eyes, more in blessing 
than rebuke. 

He became very fond of my grandmother, and of all 
the sons and daughters of the house; but to my grand¬ 
father he attached himself with a peculiar and extraordi¬ 
nary devotion. He accompanied him on all his professional 


48 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


visits, at all hours, in all weathers. In dark, wet nights, he 
led the way for him cautiously and surely, his white tail 
waving upright, almost doing service as a lantern. In 
cases of serious illness, let the good doctor ride ever so 
fast, Bose was always his avant-courier; and many an 
anxious eye looking out of the sick-room, and catching 
sight of the noble creature, has blessed him as the forerun¬ 
ner of aid and comfort. 

My grandfather was an enthusiastic sportsman ; and on 
rare golden holidays, when no humblest human life hung 
trembling on his care and skill, he delighted to take his 
gun, and call his dog, and go forth among the hills, shoot¬ 
ing and to shoot. Bose was not only a jolly comrade, agile 
and wide awake, but a well-trained retriever. When, after 
their return at night, the sportsman displayed the con¬ 
tents of a well-filled game-bag, and related the day’s 
adventures, his “ ancient ” always stood by, looking and 
listening, with a certain graciously affirmative expression, 
which seemed to say, “ All of which I saw, and a part of 
which I was.” After supper he would invariably fall 
asleep on the hearth, to “ hunt in dreams,” to sniff at view¬ 
less rabbit-burrows, and follow his airy game. 

Within a few years after the adoption of Bose, three of 
the doctor’s daughters were married. The eldest settled 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


49 


in her native village ; the two younger removed to the 
famous old town of L-. 

The bustle and gayety of these wedding-times had an 
evident effect on the spirits of the dog Bose. He was very 
busy, and pleasantly exalted, genial toward all the guests, 
patronizing to the bridegroom ; rejoicing with those who 
rejoiced, in a human, almost a Christian way. And when 
those gay, sad days were over, he seemed to miss the dear 
ones gone, and to cling all the closer to those who re¬ 
mained, especially to his beloved master. Alas! that 
affectionate companionship drew near its close. On one 
of his long night-rides, during a cold rain-storm in early 
May, the good doctor took a severe cold ; and symptoms of 
fever soon manifested themselves. Unfortunately, or with 
a rashness as incomprehensible as fatal, he trusted his case 
to his two young medical students; who, however, as¬ 
sumed the momentous charge with the most cheerful confi¬ 
dence. In the light of their science and experience, it 
seemed a slight affair, and the patient ought not to have 
grown worse ; but he did. Still, as he was singularly quiet 
and uncomplaining, little anxiety was felt by his family for 
several days, and none by his physicians. They two, with a 
full magazine of drugs at command, came up valiantly to 
the help of Disease against Nature; and, though the citadel 


5 


50 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


of a great, strong life was bravely defended, three against 
one conquered at last. Yet my grandfather seemed to 
have from the first a feeling that he should not recover. 
One lovely morning after the storm, as he sat looking out 
of his window into the garden, where the peach-trees were 
in bloom, he said, “ How beautiful is this season! too 
beautiful to close one’s eyes upon.” 

Poor, faithful Bose, unsupported by science, seemed all 
along disturbed and restless with a vague, unfamiliar 
trouble; haunting the sick-room, waiting, ah! so hungrily, 
for a low word of recognition, or a feeble pat upon the 
head ; watching the dear changing face, with a wistful 
lovingness that almost yearned itself into speech. When 
the sad end came, as all too speedily it did, his grief, 
though not noisy or demonstrative, was touching in the 
extreme; beside the bed of death with the weeping 
watchers, no one denying his right to be there ; beside the 
coffin with the mourners, his great dark eyes looking 
strangely solemn, with a visible expression of a struggle 
to comprehend the mystery of all this dreary change and 
loss, the dear master’s weakness and suffering, and then 
the stillness and silence. 

At the time of the funeral services, it was thought best 
to confine the dog in one of the closed rooms of the house. 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


51 


But by some desperate effort he made his escape ; and, 
when the hearse moved from the church towards the 
cemetery, there was Bose, walking slowly beside it, every 
now and then glancing sadly up at its dark burden. He 
kept his place till the procession reached the grave, till the 
coffin was let down into it. Then he seemed greatly dis¬ 
tressed ; but was easily quieted by the voice of one of the 
family, for he was the very soul of loyal obedience. He 
retired with the widow and her children to the home out 
of which had gone its chief brightness and joy, its best 
earthly defence. The poor creature seemed to try to com¬ 
fort them, that sorrowful night; going from one to another, 
licking their hands, and laying his head in their laps. But 
it was noticed that he made no search for his lost master. 
He knew where they had laid him. 

The next morning he was missed for some hours ; and, 
when he came home, it was remarked by the family that he 
looked more hopelessly dejected than ever. For theirs was 
a generous sorrow, that could notice and pity the grief of 
a poor dog, who had eaten of the crumbs of kindness and 
affection that fell from his master’s table. 

The next day, and for several days after, the dog was 
missed for an hour or two, coming home each time looking 
worn and wretched. At last one of the sons watched for 


52 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


his going out, and followed him, cautiously, at a distance. 
He went to the cemetery, to the grave of his master. My 
uncle quietly drew near, and, screened by a clump of ever¬ 
greens/observed him. He had laid himself down beside 
the mound, with his head upon it, and was whining in a 
peculiar, coaxing way, with which he usually attracted 
attention. After a few moments he ceased to whine, and 
began to scratch frantically, tearing away the turf. Then 
crouching still closer, he lay quite still, apparently listening 
and waiting. But no answer coming from the dear voice, 
no response from the kind hand, he flung his head back¬ 
ward, and lifted up his voice in an “ exceeding bitter cry.” 
Then his young master came forward, and kneeling by the 
grave, with one arm flung over the neck of that humble 
mourner, sorrowed with him. When, at last, he rose, he 
pointed to the mound, and gently reproved the dog for dis¬ 
turbing the turf. Poor Bose hung his head, and seemed to 
consider deeply ; and his young master knew, that, obedient 
as constant, he would never offend in that way again. 
Then they went home together. 

After this, efforts were made to wean the dog from the 
grave; and he seemed gradually to take home to his poor 
mute, unreasoning heart the stern fact that his master 
would never arise from that low bed, would never more 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


53 


heed his piteous cry. He gave up ; but for him the spring 
and gladness had gone out of life. He was still gentle, 
loving, and sympathetic ; but that exuberant dog-gayety, 
which before expressed itself in gambols and bounds, in 
frisky, waggish ways, and in little running musical barks 
wonderfully like human laughter, had departed. Through 
a sense unknown to us, he had guessed out the awful 
mystery of death ; through love, he had tasted one drop of 
the bitter cup of our humanity. 

After the great change, came lesser changes in my 
grandmother’s household. The eldest son, who had 
adopted his father’s profession, married, and removed to 

N-, in Massachusetts, some thirty miles away ; and the 

eldest son-in-law came to reside in the old homestead. To 
him and his family, Bose extended his fealty; but his 
widowed mistress had still and always his most loving and 
watchful devotion. 

As he got on in years, the desire for travel and change, 
which often comes to old people, came to this most quiet 
and domestic of dogs ; and he was one morning missed 
from the comfortable kennel from which he usually kept 
guard over the premises. As that day, and several days 
following, passed without his appearing, the family became 
anxious, and made inquiries in every direction ; but in vain. 


5 ; 



54 


AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


He seemed to have gone as mysteriously as he came. At 
length there arrived a letter from the young doctor, stating 

that Bose had reached his house in N- on the very 

morning after leaving home; that he seemed weary and 
footsore, but very happy to see him and his family. How 
the faithful creature had found his way, in the night, by 
roads he had never before travelled, was a mystery the most 
learned could not solve at that time. Perhaps, in this day 
of advanced science, it could be easily enough explained. 

Hard on the letter came back Bose himself, to be joyfully 
welcomed, petted, and respected more than ever. After a 
brief rest, he again disappeared, taking French leave as 

before. This time he did not go to N——, but to L-, 

on a visit to my mother and her sister. He came in upon 
each household like a whole “surprise-party,” seeming to 
enjoy immensely the sensation he created. He divided his 
time with rigid impartiality between the two families, and, 
before he had worn out his welcome with either, returned 
to his old home. 

These visitations were repeated two or three times a 
year while Bose lived. Indeed, he became quite a travelled 
adventurer, a knight-errant. 

I wish I could tell that this beloved family friend died 
peacefully at last, in his good old age, with his wistful gaze 





AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND. 


55 


fixed to the latest moment on loved faces, or with dear 
voices speaking comfort to him, as the coming-on of the 
great night darkened those gentle eyes, out of which no 
baleful passion had ever gleamed, which had never looked 
a lie. But the sad truth must be told. 

In the vicinity of B-, there arose one of those wild 

panics which sometimes rage in country neighborhoods, 
caused by a malicious or mischievous cry of “ Mad dog ! ” 
and ending in a great slaughter of canine innocents. Men, 
too mad themselves to be at large, cowardly and reckless 
as Ku-Klux bravos, went about with pistols and guns, shoot¬ 
ing every dog that came in their way, — and so poor Bose ! 

He was quite dead when my uncles found him, shot 
through his great, loyal heart. It was thought he had not 
suffered much. 

Many were the tears shed over him, and tenderly was he 
laid in the earth. Poor, unlearned Indians would have laid 
him at his master’s feet; but such are heathen customs. 

That the loving instinct which once led him alone 
through the night, by unknown paths, to his young master, 
was vital and divine enough to survive the murderous shot, 
and to guide him, by the mysterious ways of a higher life, 
straight to the dearer old master, I need not affirm that I 
believe. But who will presume to say it was not ? 
















































































































































• . 





































































THE STORY OF A HORSE. 




THE STORY OF A HORSE. 

N a late article by Mrs. Stowe on that 
excellent domestic convenience, “ A Handy 
Man,” I find the following paragraph : — 

“A woman who lives in the country may sometimes be 
able to save a life by knowing how to harness or drive a horse. It is, of 
course, not a proper feminine employment; but it is a thing quite easily 
learned, and the knowledge of which may come in play in exigencies.” 



I am surprised that so sensible and practical a woman 
as Mrs. Stowe can make such a concession to . the old, sen¬ 
timental idea of feminine pursuits and proprieties. It 
seems that she would have a woman learn to buckle on a 


59 








6o 


THE STORY OF A HORSE. 


harness, and - handle a whip and reins, not from a hearty, 
wholesome love of horses, but actually from a religious sense 
of duty, in order that she may be able to “ save a life ” in 
some possible emergency, by “ tackling up,” and going for 
the doctor, the fire-engine, or the “ milingtary.” 

Now, this is a dreadfully philanthropic way of considering 
the matter. What is the use of tinkering away at a pleas¬ 
ure, to make a duty of it ? — of spoiling good wine by mix¬ 
ing it with bitters ? 

I would harness and drive, saddle, bridle, ride, and be 
much with horses, because I love them. In my honest 
opinion, a woman is no more out of her place in the stable 
than in the garden. Horticulture may be a daintier 
employment than horsiculture (if I may be allowed to coin 
a word); but it contributes less to, because drawing less 
on, the sympathetic, affectional nature of woman. I truly 
believe that the love and care of a fine horse would have 
a strengthening and ennobling influence on the character 
of any true woman. On this extreme ground I take my 
stand, against a world of proprieties. 

I have always been inclined to credit the account which 
makes Joan of Arc a stable-girl. There was that in her 
of fire and dash and splendid daring which only equine 
communion and companionship can inspire. In all that 


THE STORY OF A HORSE. 


6l 


best fitted her for her wonderful, anomalous career, she 
learned more from horses than homilies. Supernal influ¬ 
ences guided her, but equinal energies entered into her 
blood and muscles. 

For me, the actual daily care of a horse were far from a 
hardship. It may be a coarse employment, but it is con¬ 
genial. I never was feminine enough to tend a canary, or 
clean house for an old gossip of a parrot; but I can look 
after the comforts and decencies of a stall most faithfully. 
I never could comb or curl a French poodle ; but I can 
groom a horse, upon occasion, and after a fashion. 

* I once — ah, me, so many years ago! — made a fair trial 
of my capacities in that direction. On returning to my 
quiet Western home, from the East, in midwinter, I found 
a new inmate of the stable, — a wild, wicked-looking, 
unkempt young chestnut sorrel, from Indiana. 

This stranger from Posey County, whence we might 
expect the very flower of Indianian horseflesh, “ the 
expectancy and rose of the fair State, ” was by no means a 
handsome animal, though he had some good points. His 
pedigree had been made no account of, even in his sale. 
His sire was to fame unknown, and his dam was of low 
degree. Yet I felt assured that there was some good blood 
in the creature ; which blood had evidently a “ determina- 


6 


62 


THE STORY OF A HORSE. 


tion to the head/’ for that was spirited, and almost beauti¬ 
ful. He had large, watchful, warning eyes, fiery nostrils, 
and small, taper ears, which seemed not only sensitive to 
a degree, but sentient. They were like little spires, into 
which his hot, quick spirit flamed up, and there threatened 
and quivered. They were unfailing indices of his mood, be 
it savage or serene. 

His neck, though a little heavy, was finely arched; but 
here the patrician stuff gave out. The tout ensemble was 
a rough, powerful, long-limbed, strong-willed, Ishmaelitish, 
unregenerate animal, of the sort which no proper young 
lady should have any thing to do with. 

At the time I made his acquaintance, he was incarnate 
rebellion. He had never been in harness, and but a few 
times under saddle. He disliked being pent up, and was 
evidently bored by the solitude and restraints of the 
stable. He expended his nervous energies mostly in kick¬ 
ing,— lashing out in all directions, and thundering away 
at the walls of the stable in gallant style. 

When I first entered his stall, he endeavored to intercept 
my advance by a flank movement; but I was too quick for 
him. With my arm around his neck, I made immediate 
interest with him by means of a huge lump of sugar. He 
evidently had a sweet tooth, answering to a soft spot in his 


THE STORY OF A HORSE. 


63 


heart; for at once his fierce eye softened, while the laid- 
back ears came quivering up and forward in a pretty, 
pacific way that was most engaging. 

From that day I paid morning and evening visits to the 
stable, and soon found myself welcomed with a joyous 
neigh. How pleasant that was, I need not tell a true lover 
of horses. My pet showed himself as playful as he had 
before been sullen. He would steal sugar from the pocket 
of my apron, play bo-peep with me, bite my arm, and tumble 
my hair, with many other endearing and delightful tricks. 
One joke, which was never stale with him, was to snatch off 
the hat from my head, and swing it high in the air. Once 
when, to tease him, I wore no hat, he caught a large comb 
from its place, and swung it aloft. 

But for my actual groom-service. Our only stable-man 
was a small boy ; who, being not a little afraid of his 
charge, performed his duties but imperfectly. Then, all 
unlearned in the mystery of the art I would teach, 
guided only by woman’s divine intuitions, I took it 
on me to instruct the lad, sponge and curry-comb in 
hand. 

Well, it must out. I actually grew so fond of that 
unladylike, improper business, that for a time I took it out 
of the boy’s hands, leaving to him the still ruder work of 


6 4 


THE STORY OF A HORSE. 


cleaning the stall, which he went through with daily, like a 
little Hercules. 

It was really curious to mark the change wrought in that 
horse by a few weeks of such care and tending. He grew 
to be almost handsome. His coat became soft and 
sleek, his mane glossy and flowing, and his limbs looked 
daintily clean. The Hoosier of him disappeared; and 
there was about him a general air of gallantry and jaunti¬ 
ness. I taught him to raise his feet for my inspection at a 
word. Sometimes, as I crouched before him, he would lift 
a foot, and place it on my hand or arm, where it would rest 
light as the caress of love. 

All these proceedings were immensely amusing to my 
little Irish assistant. Not long ago I saw an account of 
them in a Southern newspaper, taken down from his lips 
by some journalist who was no despiser of small gossip 
about small people. 

In this narrative it is stated that I frequently oiled, 
brushed, and braided the mane and tail of my horse, and 
then tied them with blue ribbons ! Here Ananias steps 
into the account. I did oil and brush the mane and fore¬ 
lock ; but not the tail, as I am a living woman! And I 
own to the braiding, but I deny the blue ribbons. 

What fast, dear friends we grew to be, my horse and I! 


THE STORY OF A HORSE. 


65 


He would know me in any disguise, or in the dark. He 
would follow me about, up and down banks and steps. At 
a word from me, he would come out of a frenzy of fright 
or anger. And there was something wonderfully pleasant 
and sustaining to me in the mute good-fellowship of the 
big, ungainly fellow. More than once, when oppressed by 
the vague sadness and discouragement that comes to one 
in the twilight, I have leaned my head against his neck for 
a good, comfortable cry. And though he stood still, and 
“ munched and munched,” I half interpreted the little 
nervous thrills, that now and then agitated the glossy coat 
under my cheek, as tokens of benign pity for my womanly 
condition. 

Yet my friend and confessor was no general lover of the 
sex.' His fealty was not transferable. No other woman 
could ride him with safety. He really enjoyed a bad repu¬ 
tation. He was an excellent animal to keep to lend to 
one’s friends. 

During the spring, summer, and autumn months, we two 
explored all the hills, woods, and gorges of a wild, pictur¬ 
esque region. We forded streams, climbed steeps, de¬ 
scended into dark ravines; we were off together in the 
early mornings, in “ night and storm and darkness.” 

In lonely woodland places I used to practise myself in 


6 * 


66 


THE STORY OF A HORSE. 


all sorts of perilous, barbaric horseback exercises ; he 
always bearing me home afterward with a demure and 
honest countenance. Discreetest of comrades ! 

In the mean time, several attempts had been made to 
break this horse to the harness, but without success. He 
chose to do the breaking himself ; in fact, did such a heavy 
business in that line as to defy all competition. 

I was finally obliged to leave home, to enter on some 
literary enterprise ; and with me went my poor comrade’s 
chief occupation. I consented that he should be sold, the 
less reluctantly from the fact that I did not own the horse, 
he being the property of another member of the family. 
In fact, I don’t think that my consent was asked. He was 
sold as a saddle-horse; yet his rash purchaser, despising 
all warning and advice, immediately went to work to attach 
him to a light buggy, only to have that piece of property 
dissolve before his eyes. Heavier vehicles went to swift 
destruction in the same way; and then did that pitiless 
man, bent upon subjugation, hit upon a cruel expedient. 
He put Pegasus to his last humiliation. He coolly pro¬ 
ceeded to harness my precious pet to a canal-boat; saying, 
with a dreadful oath, “ That’ll fetch him ! ” 

The horse, it was said, gave one sharp, intelligent look 
at the monstrous clog to which he was attached ; then, with 


THE STORY OF A HORSE. 


67 


a wild plunge, tossed his small rider over his head, and 
dashed forward at a furious rate. He actually ran away 
with that canal-boat! But he did not run far before he 
fell or threw himself over a high embankment down on a 
heap of rocks, “ struck death into his brain,” and so died. 

I was touched by his tragic end, but I gloried in his 
spirit. 

I, perhaps, am not the judge. But I cannot think that I 
am any the less womanly for having performed amateur 
groom-service for that horse ; for having fed and watered, 
saddled and bridled him ; for having rubbed him down 
from forelock to fetlock. I believe that one can be as true 
a woman in the manage as in the menage. It is our love 
for any work that gives it dignity and propriety. 


The labor one delights in physics pain.’ 


• • 
















































\ 









































































A HARROWING RECITAL. 






A HARROWING RECITAL. 


YEAR or two ago, while travelling in Illinois, 
I saw a farmer careering across a fifty-acre 
wheat-field, on a McCormick reaper, drawn 
by a pair of magnificent bays ; and I thought 
to myself it was about the jolliest way of pursuing the 
agricultural calling that could well be imagined. It was 
taking the edge off the primeval curse, and making a 
pleasure of a toil. 

In my childhood, which was mostly spent on a farm in 
the State of New York, there were no such labor savers 
and alleviators. Then work was work , — the pure, old, 
tough, Adamitic article. Then the idea of riding a-field 
would have seemed preposterous and wild; though I re¬ 
member to have had, when a little midget, a treat of the 
kind, occasionally, in being allowed by an indulgent elder 
brother to ride before him on the cross-piece of the plough, 
and even, for a few minutes at a time, to hold the reins. 
No Scythian Amazon on a burnished war-chariot could 
have been more triumphant than was I at such times, 
though the seat was a little hard and precarious. 



n 




72 


A HARROWING RECITAL. 


Once, I remember, I was allowed to ride the horse used 
in ploughing between the rows in the cornfield. I felt a 
very agreeable sense of importance. But the way I trav¬ 
elled over was rough and rather monotonous ; the weather 
was hot; even the walk of the old farm-horse was hard, 
particularly as I rode without a saddle ; and so half a day 
of pleasure and industry combined sufficed for me. 

I well remember the farm implements of that day; 
clumsy, ponderous affairs, made to last a lifetime, and tax 
the strength of a Hercules. The spades, hoes, and rakes 
were no playthings for the gardening young ladies and 
Maud Mullers of those times. The pitchforks, it seems to 
me, were especially rude and portentous, with demoniac 
suggestions for youthful minds. But the ugliest, most 
frightful-looking thing about the farmyard was the harrow; 
for thereby hung a tale of melancholy and of tragic im¬ 
port. 

My youngest brother, the darling of the family, once 
became the proud owner of a colt, which had been born on 
the child’s fourth birthday. The little fellow innocently 
asked if he and the colt were not twins. This pretty 
birthday present throve finely, and at two years old was 
considered a very promising, though a rather odd-looking 
animal. He was a sorrel, with white feet, a white star on 


A HARROWING RECITAL. 


73 


his forehead, a white mane, and a most voluminous silvery 
tail. He was mild-tempered, playful, and intelligent, a 
great pet with all the household. My little brother s heart 
was bound up in this equine friend. To him the animal 
was more than Black Bess was to Dick Turpin, than 
Dexter is to Bonner. He used to say that some day he 
was going to ride forth into the world on that long-tailed 
sorrel to seek his fortune, and that he should come gallop¬ 
ing home, in about ten years, with a couple of bags of 
dollars hanging from the saddle, and a pretty little wife 
riding on another long-tailed sorrel at his side. 

No colt was born on my luckless birthday; but a certain 
red-and-white calf was, for a time, considered my peculiar 
property, I having begged her off from the butcher by 
pledging myself to care for and feed her regularly. This 
calf was lodged at night in the carriage-house, a good 7 
sized building, in which were stored many of the farm im¬ 
plements. Hoes and rakes depended from the walls; the 
rafters were festooned with ropes and harnesses ; the big 
beam was bestrid by saddles. The one-horse family wagon, 
and the doctor’s sulky, occupied the central part; but in one 
corner stood a plough, and in another, leaning up against 
the wall, with his ugly dragon-teeth all displayed, was the 
harrow. 


74 


A HARROWING RECITAL. 


One autumn night we had guests from a distance, — 
“ carriage people,” — and had also taken in that now almost 
extinct animal, a peddler. This was a very respectable 
man, who drove a double team, and afterwards became a 
wealthy New York merchant. With all the strange horses, 
our stable was so full that the sorrel colt had to be taken 
from his stall, and put * for safe keeping into the carriage- 
house. There the stupid “hired man” tied him to the 
harrow! My reader, I doubt not, partly anticipates the 
tragic result. In the night, while trying to lie down, prob¬ 
ably, poor Sultan pulled that frightful thing over upon him, 
and fell under it. Its cruel teeth pierced his breast, one 
of them penetrating to the lungs, inflicting, of course, a 
fatal wound. Yet that was not all: in falling, he threw 
down his little companion, the calf; and unable, by the 
most frantic efforts, to extricate himself from the heavy 
weight of iron and timber, he soon crushed the life out of 
the poor young creature beneath him. 

The colt was found alive in the morning; and even when 
relieved of his cruel burden, and helped to his feet, was 
able to stand, though bleeding profusely, and breathing 
with great difficulty. He looked around on us all, with a 
piteous, wistful expression in his beautiful dark eyes, while 
his almost human moans pierced our hearts. 


A HARROWING RECITAL. 


75 


My father decided at once that our pet and playfellow 
could not live, and that his sufferings must be mercifully 
shortened. He was to be shot, and the careless hired man 
was to be his executioner. So we children all bade him 
good-by, with embraces and tears, and retired to the hay¬ 
loft till all was over. We heard the shot, though we had 
resolutely stopped our ears, and our grief burst forth 
afresh. 

“ I shall have to go tramping off afoot to seek my for¬ 
tune now,” sobbed out the bereaved little master of the 
long-tailed sorrel. 

We afterward heard that blundering John put such a 
heavy charge into the old musket that it kicked, and 
knocked him over ; and that was some comfort to us. 

This is why I have a horror of the harrow. It seems 
to me a very engine of death, a sort of rural Juggernaut. 







































MAC’S RIDE. 







• * 






• • 













































































MAC’S RIDE. 


N the spring of 1865 a clerk in one of the 
departments at Washington, “ a young man by 
the name of” McGuire, but familiarly known 
as “Mac,” applied, through a friend to the 
provost-marshal for a pass, in order to cross the Potomac 
for a ride. He had been ill, and required the recreation 
for his health. He received the pass, and dashed gayly off 
toward Georgetown; presenting, on that occasion, quite a 
gallant appearance for a civilian, being handsomely dressed 
with a half-military hat, cavalry boots, and silver spurs, and 
being mounted on a fleet and fiery steed. The day was 
beautiful as only an early spring day can be in Washing¬ 
ton ; and as our cavalier passed into the suburbs, and out 
into the country, the delicate scent of the springing grass 
under foot, and of the bursting buds overhead, the healing 
balm of the air, the tender warmth of the sunshine, the 
light and easy action of his horse, all filled and thrilled 
him with a fine joy of convalescence. But, just in the 



79 




So 


MAC S RIDE. 


height of his joyances, his annoyances began. He had 
turned a little aside from the road to water his horse at a 
spring; and, while he halted there, a stranger, who had been 
following him for some little time, rode up, looked at him 
sharply, and then brusquely asked who he was, and 
where he was going. “ I do not know that it is any of 
your business, sir, nor what authority you have to ques¬ 
tion me.” This was said rather savagely. The stranger 
seemed a little alarmed, and, putting spurs to his horse, 
galloped back towards Georgetown, while Mac continued 
his way toward the Chain-bridge. He had scarcely made 
a half-mile when he heard horses galloping behind him ; 
and presently two Federal officers dashed past, wheeled, 
and faced him, with cocked pistols and menacing counte¬ 
nances. Mac drew rein in angry astonishment, and was 
about to demand the reason of this banditti-like proceed¬ 
ing, when one of the officers seemed to recognize him, and 
laughing said, “ Excuse me : I took you for another man.” 
The three then rode on together, pleasantly chatting, 
crossed the Chain-bridge, passed Fort Marcy, and went 
some three or four miles' beyond, out into old, desolated 
Virginia. Suddenly Mac perceived that a change had 
come o’er the spirit of the day. It grew sombre, and a 
little chill, with prospects of rain; and, taking leave of his 


mac’s ride. 


Si 


companions, he turned, and rode homeward at full speed. 
So intent was he on getting back with a dry skin, that he 
dashed through Fort Marcy, and down the hill toward the 
Chain-bridge, without drawing rein. Coming to a fork of 
the road, he noticed some cavalry, halted, but held on his 
way ; and though he presently heard them galloping behind 
him, not dreaming that they could have any thing to do 
with him, he kept bravely on till he also heard pistol-shots, 
and bullets began to whiz around his ears. Then, thinking 
that matters were getting a little serious, he wheeled, and 
found he was being pursued by a whole company of cav¬ 
alry. He threw up his hands in token of surrender. His 
pursuers dashed up, and formed a hollow square about him, 
while the officer in command saluted him with a sort of 
grim courtesy, and addressed him as colonel. “ Colonel! ” 
exclaimed our innocent civilian, now thoroughly irritated: 
“what in thunder do you mean?” and I am sorry to say 
that he then, and at other times during that trying day, 
made use of some strong expressions which he never learned 
at Sunday school. “ Who do you take me to be ? ” he 
fiercely demanded. The officer smiled a “wise, slow 
smile.” “ Ah, I know you very well, colonel. We all know 
you. There is but one of your sort. How’s your health, 
colonel ? wounds quite healed, I hope. Fine horse that; 
and you ride him gallantly, by Jove!” 


8 2 


mac’s ride. 


Mac, for all answer, triumphantly produced his pass. 
Another knowing smile from the captain of cavalry, as he 
examined it. “Good name in Washington. May I ask, 
colonel, how long you have been McGuire? ” Just here a 
one-eyed Irish soldier, on guard at the bridge, rushed up, 
discharged at the prisoner a frantic volley of oaths, and 
claimed the privilege of shooting him on the spot, for hav¬ 
ing “ shot out me eye at Centreville.” He actually levelled 
his musket at Mac, and obliged him to ask the protection 
of his captors, who commanded the irate Irishman to 
return to his post, and keep the peace. In a few moments 
our bewildered hero was allowed to proceed, but with the 
full cavalry escort. He rode in sullen silence over the 
bridge he had crossed so gayly that very morning. Arrived 
on the shore, the captain commanded a halt, and called 
into anxious consultation a colonel of artillery there sta¬ 
tioned. This officer, after keenly and somewhat severely 
scrutinizing the prisoner, stepped up to him, and said, with 
an air of stern importance, “ Colonel, you will be pleased 
to dismount here, and walk into town.” ^ 

“ Colonel,” responded Mac, with quite as stern and lofty 
an air, ‘11 shall not be pleased fo do any such thing. I 
have been ill lately, and am not able to walk so far. Be¬ 
sides, my horse is a borrowed one, and I am bound to 


mac’s ride. 


83 


return it to its owner: moreover, I deny your right to 
interfere with me in any way. On the whole, I decline to 
dismount.” There followed a whispered consultation 
among the officers ; and finally it was concluded to send the 
contumacious “ colonel,” under a double escort of cavalry 
and infantry, to Georgetown. Arrived here, Mr. McGuire 
underwent a severe examination before the provost-marshal. 
That officer seemed to credit his story as little as the 
others, but to feel for him the sympathy of a generous foe- 
man. “ I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, colonel,” he said * 
“ I’ll allow you to dismount, and go into Washington in 
the horse-car, to avoid publicity, and spare your feelings.” 

But this gracious consideration was ungraciously received 
by Mac, who was resolved to stick to his horse. It was a 
tempting animal, and those were confiscating times. So 
he was marched on, still with his extraordinary escort of 
cavalry and infantry, and followed by an excited crowd, to 
the office of Gen. Auger, then commanding at Washington. 
There they found Col. Taylor, aide-de-camp, a very 
polite officer, who said, “ Well, colonel, what can I do for 
you ? ” By this time Mac was tired of making explana¬ 
tions and asseverations, so only answered, “ I am- a pris¬ 
oner ; I don’t know for what. I have nothing to say.” 
Col. Taylor, not knowing what to do with him, sent 


8 4 


mac’s ride. 


him, still with his escort, to the provost-marshal’s office. 
When put in charge of the officers of that department, he 
again indignantly demanded to know for what he was held 
in arrest, and marched about from pillar to post in this 
ridiculous manner. Here he hardly met with such gentle 
courtesy as was shown him at the last halting-place. He 
was advised to refrain from asking questions, or making 
remarks ; good advice, probably, but the form of speech was 
a little objectionable. It was, “You keep your mouth 
shut.” Then the blood of a freeborn, loyal American 
citizen was up in our friend Mac, and he answered, “ No 
ninety-three-dollars-a-month man, no military upstart, like 
you, has a right to order me to keep my mouth shut. I 
will speak when and as I please; and I again demand an 
explanation of this outrageous treatment.” 

This produced some sensation, but both resentment and 
remonstrance were in vain. Officers and men continued 
to crowd around the prisoner; some abusing him, some jok¬ 
ing and quizzing him. 

The next actor that appeared on the scene was a courier, 
booted and spurred, and covered with dust, who came hur¬ 
rying in, and handed some papers to the officer in com¬ 
mand. While his despatches were being examined, this 
courier, who was a Virginia scout, proceeded to closely 


mac’s ride. 


85 


inspect Mr. McGuire. He then conferred with the officers, 
who again came about the prisoner, addressed him as 
" colonel,” or “ general,” asked about the state of his 
wounds, and advised him to “ own up,” as everybody recog¬ 
nized him, and his “ little McGuire game ” was “ played 
out.” He received all these graceful pleasantries in sullen, 
almost stupefied silence ; convinced at last of the fact that 
his tormentors were too much for him, and that the day’s 
run of luck was against him. At length there came another 
stir: the cavalry and infantry began to form, and poor Mac 
learned that he was about to be marched to the Old Capitol 
Prison. This, in the delicate state of his health, was a 
little appalling, and he was about to try a few more desper¬ 
ate expostulations, when a friend, an officer of high rank 
in the War Department, happened in, recognized him, 
swore stoutly to his identity, and released him on the spot, 
though a dozen men had been ready to take solemn oath 
that he wasn’t he, but quite another man, a most desirable 
personage to capture and to hold. 

I was reminded of this little story, by a “personal” 
which appeared in one of our morning papers a week or so 
ago: — 

“ Gen. Moseby , late of the Confederate service, is in town , 
and stopping at the St. James',' 


8 


86 


mac’s ride. 


It was this gallant rebel raider that Mr. McGuire was 
taken for on that spring day when he went on his memora¬ 
ble pleasure-ride over into Virginia; a ride which, for mis¬ 
adventures and misunderstandings, can only be compared 
with the immortal equestrian excursion of John Gilpin to 
Edmonton, and beyond. It was altogether a curious case 
of mistaken identity ; and the stranger whom our friend 
first encountered on that eventful morning was probably 
the man who informed on him, and made all the trouble. 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS.' 

















































































SOMETHING 


ABOUT TOADS. 


One of the most distrusted, dis¬ 
liked, and ill-used of reptiles is the toad ; yet it 
is not only a peaceful and harmless citizen of 
the animal republic, but a very serviceable 
creature to man, as the destroyer of many 
noxious insects. 

Skilful gardeners are aware of the usefulness 
of these “tail-less batrachians,” as naturalists 
call toads and frogs ; and are glad to employ 
them as a police force, to patrol their hot-beds, and snap 
up ants, bugs, and worms, hurtful to plants. 

Entomologists make use of toads as traps to catch cer^ 


8* 


89 


90 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS. 


tain rare kinds of beetles, that only venture out at night. 
In the morning they are constrained by an emetic, or some 
yet more violent means, to disgorge their yet undigested 
repasts ; a proceeding I should call outrageous, were not 
great questions and interests of science at stake. From 
the toad’s point of view, it is doubtless a very dirty piece 
of tyranny. 

The toad feeds on insects of all sorts and kinds, not 
being at all particular, except that its little victim must be 
alive and stirring. It will not touch the daintiest moth, or 
the tenderest young fly, if dead. It leaves such prey to a 
coroner’s jury of ants, or Mr. Undertaker Beetle. It re¬ 
mains perfectly still, watching an insect with its brilliant 
eyes (its sole beauty), till the thoughtless little thing comes 
within reach of its tongue, which then darts out, and whisks 
Mr. Fly out of sight in an instant. The play of a toad’s 
tongue is so rapid that your eye cannot follow it: it comes 
and goes in tiny red flashes, like a small variety of light¬ 
ning. 

The Bnfo vulgaris , or common toad, is certainly not 
comely to look upon, nor particularly lovely in his life; 
but he is neither poisonous nor ill-tempered. He has in 
some of his wart-like excrescences an acrid fluid, which he 
can give out on occasion, and which is his sole means of 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS. 


91 


self-defence. There are two small protuberances just back 
of the head, that he uses most effectively in this offensive 
spouting. If a rash dog attacks a toad, and takes him in 
his mouth as he takes a rat, he is apt to drop him as he 
would a hot potato, not relishing the stinging dose he gets. 
But the dog never dies of the bite, though sometimes the 
toad does. 

Many of the old painters, poets, and writers make toads 
the companions of sorcerers and witches, with snakes and 
black cats. A toad is the first ingredient that the witches 
in “ Macbeth ” fling into the caldron where they are mak¬ 
ing their diabolical stew. As she tosses him in, the old 
witch, adding insult to injury, sings,— 

“ Toad, that under coldest stone 
Days and nights hast thirty-one 
Sweltered venom sleeping got, 

Boil thou first in the charmed pot.” 

Now, all this is superstition, and rank poetry. It is no 
more true that the toad is venomous than that he carries in 
his head “a rich jewel,” as Mr. Shakspeare elsewhere 
says. He is a steady-going, honest fellow, ugly, but virtu¬ 
ous, and no more takes to witches and sorcerers than you 
or I. As for keeping company with snakes, I am confident 


92 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS. 


he doesn’t do it, for the very reason that sensible antelopes 
should decline to associate on intimate terms with ana- 
coilclas. He knows that a good-sized snake would swal¬ 
low him without salt or ceremony, — would make no bones 
of it. 

I remember that my brother and I, when we were chil¬ 
dren, once came across a snake of so portly a shape, and so 
sluggish in movement, that our suspicions were aroused. 
We thought there had been some sort of foul play with the 
young birds of a tree overhead. So my brother, who was 
destined to be a doctor, fixing the murderer to the ground 
with split sticks, performed a surgical operation upon him 
in a manner neat and, skilful, and highly satisfactory, at 
least to the imprisoned prey, — a toad, who hopped out of 
his disagreeable quarters as brisk as Jonah ! Apparently 
he was none the worse for his adventure, which may have 
furnished him with a good story for the rest of his life. 
It may be his friends and toadies grew heartily tired 
of hearing him start off with, “ Speaking of snakes, did 
you ever hear ” —; or, “ When I was down in the snake’s 
belly” — 

You ask, What about the unfortunate snake? Well, he 
died, in spite of all the efforts of science. Life made a 
slow retreat down his whole length, to the tip of his tail, 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS. 


93 


where it lingered till sundown, then gave a convulsive wrig¬ 
gle, and went out 

Toads are capable of friendly sentiments, and can be 
domesticated. For several years one lived just under the 
pantry window at our old homestead, and would come forth 
from his hole when called, and eat the bread-crumbs that 
were given to him. It was a damp place, and large toad¬ 
stools grew near ; and I remember I used to think he sat on 
them, of course ; but I never caught him at it. I believe 
they are another superstition. This toad was thought to 
be one of the oldest inhabitants of thpse parts. He was 
very stout, seemed stiff and gouty, and had but one eye, 
which gave him a rather sinister aspect. 

Willis, the poet, had at his lovely home, called “ Glen- 
Mary,” a pet toad, which haunted, season after season, a 
particular path through the lawn. When Mr. Willis left 
this dear spot, he commended his portly protegt to the kind 
tolerance of the next proprietor ; begged him, when mowing 
the lawn, to remember the poor old toad’s whereabouts, 
and not “ slice him up ” with the scythe. 

I remember a pleasant little story of the Duke of Well¬ 
ington offering to feed for a week the pet toad of a little 
friend, while the child was obliged to be absent. Wood, in 
his Natural History, tells of a pet toad which had lived for 


94 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS. 


years in a family, and supped daintily every night on lumps 
of sugar. 

There is a great deal that is queer about toads. They 
seem to have numerous little mouths in their skins, and 
drink in water that way ; which is very convenient when 
they are shut away from all water except what they can 
catch in showers. They occasionally shed their ugly skins. 
They are said to draw the upper portion off over the head, 
like a shirt; and then they immediately proceed to swallow 
it. They are great economists, and support no “ old-clo’ ” 
men. 

They are amphibious, but evidently prefer the land to 
the water, except, in the spring ; when, after lying torpid 
all winter in holes, or under stones or stumps, they resort 
to ponds and streams for the purpose of laying their eggs. 
These are produced in long strings or clusters, enclosed in 
a gelatinous substance. Their young are regular tadpoles 
when hatched in the water; but, when hatched on land, 
their tails, if they ever have any, are soon discontinued. 
Nature is very economical. She don’t waste eyes on 
Mammoth-Cave fishes, nor tails and gills on garden-born 
toads. 

But some varieties of toads are queerer than others. 
There is one kind, found in the vicinity of Paris, the male 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS. 


95 


of which seems to me a model of devotion as a husband 
and father. He waits upon and even assists the femaje 
when she is laying her eggs ; then takes them, and fastens 
them, by small, stem-like strings, to his legs and thighs, — 
decorates himself with them, as an Indian does with wam¬ 
pum, — and, thus burdened with family cares, he retires to 
the utmost domestic privacy in his hole, and there remains, 
keeping the eggs still and warm, brooding them in a sort 
of way, and taking for food whatever Mrs. Toad chooses 
to provide. As for her, she goes about at her own pleas¬ 
ure ; attends all the “ hops ” in the neighborhood, and, it 
may be, comes home now and then, rather late in the morn¬ 
ing, to hear poor, meek Mr. Toad ask, with a sigh, “ My 
dear, where have you been ? ” 

When the young arrive at the tadpole stage, the father, 
who knows the very day, by a sort of almanac of his own, 
waddles to the nearest piece of water, plunges in, gives a 
few energetic kicks, and launches them all in life. 

But the queerest of all is the Surinam toad. The 
male and female of this variety also divide their family 
cares and labors in a very amiable and curious Way. As 
soon as Mrs. Toad of Surinam lays her eggs, Mr. Toad of 
Surinam takes them, and fastens them with a sort of glu¬ 
tinous matter, of his own invention, to the skin of Mrs. 


96 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS. 


Toad of Surinam ; whose skin, being of an accommodating 
nature, rises up around each egg, and encloses it in a sort 
of sac, or pouch, covered on the top by a thin gelatinous 
veil. There the eggs remain snugly embedded till they 
pass through the usual changes of growth ; are tadpoles a 
while, but, having no particular use for tails, drop them 
before descending from the maternal back. When they 
hop out of their pouches, and begin life in earnest, they 
are regular toads, of the rare and exclusive family peculiar 
to Surinam and Guiana. 

A prolific female toad of this sort must present a most 
grotesque appearance, when bearing on her broad back a 
whole nursery of her offspring, in different stages of devel¬ 
opment : some yet slumbering unconscious in the egg; 
some, scarcely knowing whether they are tads or toads, 
peeping curiously out of their pouches, like so many 
pappooses; some just ready to make the momentous 
hop off into the great, dim world of some dark court of 
Surinam. 

Another funny thing is, that some naturalists contend 
that this toad of Surinam never lays her eggs at all, but 
sends them by some secret passages, known only to herself, 
up through her body to her back; that they break out 
through the skin in a sort of oviferous eruption. I really 


SOMETHING ABOUT TOADS. 


97 


cannot decide a matter which learned men differ about; 
but I am inclined to think that the eggs are laid in the 
good old way, as I have related. As to the undisputed 
fact of their being hatched mother-back, I can only say it 
is the fashion in Surinam. 













































































% 





A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE 
CUSTOMERS. 












































% 




s 





















A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE CUSTOMERS. 

r a slimmer in Washington, two new 
5, very curious and quaint little crea- 
fell under my observation. The 
r as the mantis , or rear-horse, a species 
of grasshopper, which, as its name would imply, has a 
resemblance to a horse rampant . It has six legs, if the 
foremost pair, which are serrated, and look like the claws 
of a lobster, can be called legs. With these it catches 
insects, and, closing the joints, holds them impaled on the 
sharp little spines, while it leisurely devours them. It has 
a long, slender neck, and a small head, the action of which 
is amusingly like that of a horse, especially when the crea- 
ture is eating — which it generally is. About the mouth 
are set small feelers, or tasters, which are constantly in 
motion ; and from between the eyes rise two long, flexible, 
hair-like horns, which are pricked up or depressed like the 
ears of a horse. The eyes are ludicrously prominent and 
wide-awake. If you scratch a rear-horse on the flank, or 



9’ 


IOI 




102 


A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE CUSTOMERS. 


pat his neck, he will turn his head, and regard you with a 
startling amount of “speculation in those orbs.” Like 
many other odd things, rear-horses are said to be peculiar to 
this region ; are seldom seen north of it, at least. Our late 
Chinese visitors regarded them with a pensive interest, say¬ 
ing that they had the like of them at home ; only, of course, 
of a larger and handsomer variety. It may be the great sire 
and dam of our breed was imported from Hong Kong in a 
tea-chest. Some gigantic poor relations of the rear-horse, 
called from their extreme attenuation “walking-sticks,” 
or “spectres,” and from their destructiveness “war- 
horses,” appear upon the farms of Pennsylvania and New 
Jersey. These seem to be vegetarians, as they do much 
mischief by destroying the buds and leaves of trees. A 
wood has been haunted by these same spectres to the 
extent of absolute defoliation, till the Dryads cried, “ Take 
any shape but that! ” 

Rear-horses, on the contrary, are not only harmless, but 
useful in keeping down the population of noxious insects ; 
yet they, in turn, might give us too much of a good thing, 
had not Nature devised a check in form of a little ichneu¬ 
mon fly, that often stealthily deposits its eggs in those of 
the mantis , which are thus destroyed. The interloper-fly 
finds the eggs attached in little brown masses to the 


A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE CUSTOMERS. 


103 


branches of trees, and looking like knots or excrescences. 
Those that escape the sly little enemy are hatched in June. 
The young rear-horses are at first very frail and dainty- * 
looking creatures, almost transparent; but even then they 
are astonishingly voracious. Indeed, a naturalist here 
asserts that he has known an infant rear-horse or colt of 
the tender age of three days to capture and devour a full- 
grown honey-maker without as much as saying, “ Bee 
mine ! ” 

In youth rear-horses mostly appear fittingly apparelled 
in green, and later on in life don suits of brown and gray ; 
yet I have seen old fellows still “ wearing of the green,” 
like Fenians, and very small ones in sober gray, like young 
Quakers. 

After a season of leanness, the mantis puts on a portly, 
well-to-do look, as though he had secured a “ fat contract ” 
from Congress. At first, too, he stalks around like a poor 
lobbyist on foot, “ seeking whom he may devour ; ” but in 
his better days he takes not a carriage, but wings, with 
which he dashes about in the upper circles, from tree to 
tree, making havoc among all smaller insects. In this 
poetic stage of his career, the rear-horse may remind one 
of a fairy Pegasus. But the greediness of the creature 
grows with its growth ; and is, I am sorry to say, more 


104 


A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE CUSTOMERS. 


fierce and insatiate in the female than the male. Larger 
and stronger than her mate, indeed, the rear-mare may be 
said to be “ the better horse.” She is, as was said of Wol- 
sey, “of an unbounded stomach.” Not even love appears 
to diminish her a petite. She turns from her wooer to 
make a meal of a stray miller; and woe to the bee that 
falls into her clutches, even in the honeymoon! 

A very shocking proof of this weakness I am com¬ 
pelled, as a faithful historian, to adduce: she sometimes, 
in seasons of scarcity and “ short commons,” devours her 
own husband ! 

I have heard of an unfortunate Benedict, who once gave 
expression to pensive reminiscences and regrets in this 
wise : “ When I was first married, I loved my wife so dearly 
I could have eaten her; and many times since I’ve been 
sorry I didn’t do it.” 

If not quite |miable behavior, is it not wise in Mrs. 
Mantis to provide against the possibility of any such vain 
regrets in her domestic life, by making way with her young 
lord while they are on tolerably good terms, and he is not 
likely to disagree with her ? It may be she pounces upon 
him as he dozes in the sun after dinner, having feasted on 
flies of her catching, leaving her only a few wings and 
drumsticks, and speedily makes an end of him for the good 


A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE CUSTOMERS. 105 

of the family; for thus will not his substance go to nourish 
the eggs through which his race is to be perpetuated ? 

When first caught, the mantis is exceedingly wild and* 
restive, rearing back, and striking out in all directions ; but 
it can be subdued and tamed by a judicious course of feed¬ 
ing and petting, without resort to Rarey’s strap. 

A lady once captured an intelligent female, and kept it 
for a long time in her room. She taught it to come to her 
when called, and take flies and bits of raw meat from her 
fingers. But, though it became quite gentle and quiet, I 
am sorry to say there was no decrease in its voracity. So 
it would seem, 

“We can call these delicate creatures ours, 

And not their appetites.” 

In the autumn, the rear-horse gets so clumsy and heavy, 
so immoderately corpulent, that his ai^* tfings will no 
longer support him. He falls to the ground, and is obliged 
to walk or hop for the remainder of his days, or be trodden 
under foot of men. The contractor has overreached him¬ 
self. What sort of an end he makes at last, I have never 
ascertained ; whether he dies of a small variety of equine 
apoplexy, or goes off in a galloping consumption. But 
there comes a time, doubtless, when Washington life grows 


106. A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE CUSTOMERS. 

as wearisome to him as to a poor loyal man with a claim 
against government; when he feels the frosts and infirmi¬ 
ties of age ; when the grasshopper in him is a burden; 
when the horse of him rears and prances no more; when 
his race is run, and he vanishes from the earth. 


My second queer customer is a sort of caterpillar, found 
hereabouts on the leaves of fruit-trees. This small new 
acquaintance, whose name I have not yet ascertained, bears 
about as much resemblance to a fat poodle-dog as the 
mantis does to a rearing horse; only, by an odd mistake 
or whim of Nature, he wears on his back the very saddle 
the mantis should have worn. His figure is short and 
round, with stout little legs. His color is brown, with the 
exception of a spot of vivid green, edged with gold, exactly 
in the shape of a saddle. He comes very near being a Cer¬ 
berus ; for he seems to have two heads, one at each end. 
With the moderately magnifying glass I use, I have not 
been able to decide which is the real capnt. Both extremi¬ 
ties are protected by ugly, bristle-like stings, which make 
this dog-caterpillar a pet not to be handled without gloves. 
He crouches on the leaf of the tree he affects, and clings 
so that it is almost impossible to dislodge him. He 



A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE CUSTOMERS. 


107 


believes in “ squatter sovereignty.” At a little distance 
he looks like a large, discolored excrescence of the 
leaf; indeed, you can hardly tell where that leaves offi 
and he begins. 

While I was making a study of the rear-horse, keeping 
my specimen, when not exercising him, in a small box, well 
ventilated and victualled, — the children called it “ the 
stable,” — a friend brought me several of these canine 
caterpillars, attached to a large leaf of the pear-tree. There 
was a rough old dog, a female of more delicate make and 
coloring, and a couple of youngsters at her side. All these 
were simulating death, “ playing ’possum,” in the most per¬ 
fect and obstinate manner; betraying not the faintest sigh 
of life, even when menaced by pencil-points and hair-pins. 
Even the young ones showed themselves little monsters of 
deception, — never stirring a hair’s breadth, allowing not 
even a bristle to quiver. At last I concluded that the 
entire family group was indeed as dead as it looked; but, 
in order-to be quite certain of the mournful fact, I placed 
the leaf, to which they adhered with a death-grip, under a 
tumbler, and -left them for the night. In the morning I 
discovered that they had all revived, and were circling 
round the sides of the glass on a tour of exploration. I 
shook them off on to the leaf, where they immediately died 


io8 


A COUPLE OF QUEER LITTLE CUSTOMERS. 


again. I waited for a second revival; and, when that took 
place, I trotted out my rear-horse, and confronted him 
with the parent caterpillar, which instantly proceeded to 
die once more, while the mantis , evidently snuffing dan¬ 
ger from those bristling stings, reared frantically, and 
fell over on his haunches. Had each recognized an ene¬ 
my ? Oh the wisdom of these wonderful little creatures ! 
Who shall say if reason or instinct be more divine ? 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


, k 










r 

^ i 
















































































* 





















































































FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 



HE barn at Maple Lawn was not the un- 
picturesque, drearily practical edifice that 
usually goes under the name in thriving 
agricultural districts. Without, irregular, 
weather-browned, and moss-grown : within, it held, first 
in importance, a great, wide, windy hall, in which strolling 
players might present the great tragedy of “ Richard,” 
with all the forces of Gloster and Richmond, their royal 
court-scenes, parades, marchings, campings, and bloody 
“ scrimmages.” Then there were wings, which were full 
of rambling passages, and dim nooks and corners, in 
which one might lose one’s self in seeking the hay-mow, 
that sweetest and springiest of couches, curtained by a 


in 






112 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


perpetual, odorous twilight. Under its eaves nestled tame 
pigeons, whose delicious cooings seemed the languor and 
sweetness of summer hours translated into sound. 

Some of their nests were attainable by good climbers ; 
and we occasionally looked in upon their little nurseries, 
and caught sight of their newly hatched young ones, in 
their first, fuzzy, little bobtailed under-shirts, — forlorn, 
comfortless little wretches, all bill and claw and crop, for¬ 
ever gaping for their Diet of Worms. It was wonderful to 
think that from such a sorry beginning Nature was to pro¬ 
duce beautiful, glossy-winged, soft-plumed, poetic creatures, 
— emblems of love and purity, and of the divine spirit of 
acceptance and peace. 


In a precisely opposite 
direction wrought Nature 
on some little porcine in¬ 
mates of the stable below. 
Pure white were they, 
with soft touches of pink 
here and there; clean and 
dainty, with saucy little 
twinkling eyes, and funny 



twists in their tails, which seemed to come from the crazy 
quickness with which they whirled and capered about in 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


* 1 13 


their narrow quarters. So frisky and frolicsome, so really 
pretty and engaging, were they, that it was melancholy to 
think that each would yet develop, lengthen, broa r den, and- 
fatten into such a stupendous shape of ugliness and 
coarseness as the huge old mother sus, who flopped about 
in the straw, and grunted out lazy protests against their 
noisy gambols. 

In a neighboring stall, a fine young calf was imprisoned, 
during the piteous process of weaning. Previous to this 
sad season, we had enjoyed seeing the pretty creature at 
her meals. With what eager ardor she charged on the 
swelling udder ! and how instantly, when the thirsty tongue 
caught the fine delight of the first delicious trickle, it tele¬ 
graphed it to the tail, which responded with ecstatic little 
signals of its own! 

Poor thing! she took the separation hard, and rebelled 
against the new way of receiving sustenance ; snorting, 
and tossing her head in disgust. She refused to be recon¬ 
structed, declaring for “ the Ufiion as it was,” without 
change or compromise. She had to be benevolently gar¬ 
rotted, and regularly mobbed with the milk-pail. When at 
night the mother came up from the pasture to be disbur¬ 
dened of her precious store, — essence of tenderest brook- 
side grass, cream of clover blossoms, — we watched her 

10* 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


114 

with pitying interest. She drew as near as possible to 
the stable, a great, patient yearning showing itself in her 
mild face, called, and was answered by a voice beloved. 
All through milking-time the loving challenge and reply 
made the air resonant. Through the dim twilight and the 
cruel wall passed from bovine heart to heart a something 
invisible, intangible, ineffable,— 

“ For stony limits cannot hold love out.” 

In this capacious stable, were winter-quarters for four or 
five horses ; which in summer, when not in harness, roamed 
the pastures “fancy free,” with a pair of dun mules, on 
terms of apparent good-fellowship and equine equality. Of 
these worthies we saw little; but, loafing about the barn 
and cow-yard, was at any time to be seen a petted young 
mule, not yet inured to the harness or the bit, — a rather 
comely specimen of his tribe, and remarkably amiable. 
He always overlooked the milkings and the children’s 
plays, with a ludicrous expression of friendly curiosity in 
his grave, foolish face. There was a tender softness in his 
eye, and an air about him of alert interest in human goings- 
on, which I could but respect; yet the tout ensemble of the 
creature always made me smile. There was such a lack 
of balance in the figure, — such a bold beginning, such a 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


15 


“ lame and impotent conclusion ! ” Nature lays herself out 
with such a lavish prodigality on the ears, and gives out so 
lamentably in the tail ! 

Yet the mule is an animal of very romantic associations. 
I cannot see one without thinking of the jolly squires and 
fat priors of Robin Hood’s time; of Sancho Panza and 
Dulcinea; of Alpine ascents and Andean treasure-trains. 
And of how many sacred and poetic Eastern scenes does 
he form a part ! — the world’s great worker, sturdy, 
patient, and reliable ; the most useful and the best-abused 
friend of mankind. 

One day the children made a startling discovery, while 
searching in and about this stable for hens’ eggs. They 
found — not “ a mare’s nest,” but a cat’s nest, with three 
tiny kittens in it; two very dark, and tiger-striped ; and 
one jet black, not a flake of white about him, a regular 
imp of darkness. They were the wild “ olive-branches ” of 
one of the cats that haunted the barn, hovering just out¬ 
side the pale of civilization. The five house-pets were 
brought out at once to call on the little strangers; but they 
actually turned up their dainty noses, and put on aristo¬ 
cratic airs. They had evidently a prejudice against color. 
The wild young mother seemed strangely subdued and 
tamed by maternity : she quietly watched our proceedings, 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


I 16 

and purred mellifluously; but, the children being rather too 
free and frequent in their visits, she soon changed her 
quarters, and hid her treasures from their profane gaze 
forever. 



Hunting hens’ eggs in the barn, out-houses, and garden, 
was very exciting sport for the little folk. Every after¬ 
noon they set out on their foraging expeditions, and often 
returned laden with spoil. Some of the hens, ambitious for 
family dignities, were very cunning in hiding their nests in 
the most out-of-the-way places ; but few were so skilfully 
concealed as to escape our indefatigable little foragers. 




FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


II 7 


Alice even discovered a sly Dame Partlett sitting on a 
surreptitious nest, in an old, out-door oven ; hoping doubt¬ 
less to bring thence, in good time, well -bred chickens. 

The child was much exercised about the stupidity and 
obstinacy of certain hens, who were bent upon sitting 
without due preparation, — some with only one egg, and 
some with no egg at all. She indignantly complained, one 
night, of the cantankerous conduct of a certain speckled 
biddy, who had lazed about all summer, and never laid an 
egg. “ This afternoon,” she said, “ I thought to myself, 
Maybe she don’t know how to make a nest; for she’s 
young, you know. So I made her one, out of soft, fine 
hay, all rounded out nicely, and I put a real egg in it; 
and then I caught her, and showed her the egg ; I put her 
nose and eyes right down to it. And then I put her on the 
nest, and held her down for a good many minutes ; and she 
was very quiet. But, just as soon as I took away my hand, 
she jumped up, and flew away squawking. I never saw such 
an ungrateful old simpleton. Here I’d set her up with a 
comfortable nest, and a ready-made egg for a pattern, and 
she wouldn’t lay. She may go childless to the end of her 
days, for all I care.” 

In this matter of laying, hens are, as a classic authority 
says of women, “ queer creeturs ; ” sometimes so shy and 
secretive, sometimes so bold and boastful. 


118 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


A friend told us that one day a bustling bantam pullet 
came hurrying into her kitchen, from the barn, escorted 
by a gallant young cockerel. The two looked around them 
coolly, then walked, with an air of indescribable impor¬ 
tance, into the pantry, where they were allowed to remain 
for a few moments, and whence they finally emerged, cack¬ 
ling and crowing joyously; the pullet having left in the 
middle of the floor a tiny egg. 

A gentleman farmer we wot of has a pet pullet, who 
follows him about the yard like a dog, enters the house 
freely at door or window, and roosts about “ promiscuous,” 
as Artemus might say. 

One summer day, after dinner, as 

“ The farmer sat in his easy-chair,” 

in the breezy hall, enter biddy, tick, ticking her way 
over the oilcloth, and casting familiar sidelong looks at her 
friend. Receiving no repulse, she flew on to his shoulder, 
— a favorite perch, — and from thence to his knees, where 
she settled herself in downy repose. The farmer smoothed 
her snowy plumage slowly and more slowly ; and at last 
he, too, slept. 

He was awakened by a shrill, exultant cackle. The 
pullet had flown from his lap, but had left there her first 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


II 9 

One of the biddies of this farmyard displayed, on one 
occasion, more intelligence and purpose than I had ever 
given hen-nature credit for. My attention was called to 
her by a number of geese, who gathered about her, expos¬ 
tulating and scolding at a furious rate. As I drew near, I 
found that she was engaged in trying to extricate a luckless 
half-grown chicken from between the bars of a coop, where 
he had got stuck in attempting to “break jail.” The hen, 
doubtless a friendly neighbor, pulled at him lustily with 
bill and claw, paying no heed to the indignant gabble of 
the geese, — a moving example of benevolence misunder¬ 
stood. I stepped in, and finished her good work, and she 
stood forth vindicated from all fowl aspersions. But the 
geese gabbled and gossiped -still, and, I doubt not, have the 
same opinion of her to this day. 

The year previous to our visit, one of the farm hens suc¬ 
ceeded, after many vain attempts, in hiding her nest, stock¬ 
ing it bounteously, sitting, and hatching in undisturbed 
quiet and security; and, one morning in the fall, she 
appeared at the kitchen-door, marshalling a large brood 
of belated little chicks. She strutted and clucked and 
scratched with immense exultation and importance. But 
the chill and rainy weather was too much for the constitu¬ 
tion of her interesting but unseasonable family : they were 


120 


FARM-VARD FRIENDS. 


attacked by that fatal epidemic, the “ gapes,” and one 
after another they all succumbed to it; for “ yawning is 
catching.” 

Moral: Don’t set yourself in opposition to the almanac. 

The turkey interest in the farm-yard was considerable. 
There was a large Meleagrisian community, chiefly of the 
“ female persuasion,” headed by a majestic old gobbler in 
steel and scarlet; pompous as a parish beadle, autocratic 
and venerable as a Mormon elder. He was a regular old 
Spartan ruler. If, among the goodly flocks of small turkeys 
that timidly peeped in his mighty presence, he caught sight 
of one hopelessly puny and sickly, he put it to death with¬ 
out mercy. He allowed no interlopers in his community. 
A hen who had been set on turkey-eggs, undertaking to 
“ ring in ” to the charmed circle of her chicks’ aristocratic 
relations, was driven away ignominiously. He bore down 
on her like a buccaneer, with his red flag flying, under a 
heavy press of tail, and chased her up till she took refuge 
in her own humble coop, — Little-Egg-Harbor. Even her 
chicks, indisputable little turkey-lings though they were, 
born under an evil star and an alien wing, yvere pecked 
and buffeted unmercifully; and finally, for having insisted, 
like so many young Bourbons, on asserting their royal 
rights, were utterly exterminated. 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


121 


He was a sight to behold — this terrible potentate — 
after having performed a stern military duty like this. 
He swelled and glowed, and spread himself; and his gobble 
— his “general order”—was heard afar off. He was a 
pacha of but one tail, but that was “ a stunner.” 

Every morning the patriarch called together his numer¬ 
ous wives and family, and conducted them in state to the 
fields that lay along the creek, where they seemed to find 
good foraging of some sort. At night they returned for a 
supper of corn, and to roost in close ranks, a mighty force 
of fencibles. Coming and going on these daily journeys, 
poor wretches, they marched unconsciously in mournful 
funeral procession toward Thanksgiving and Christmas. 
Such is life. 

One of the turkey wives, being dilatory in her domestic 
duties, put herself in the hatch-way quite late in the sea¬ 
son. When she emerged from retirement with a fine 
brood, she was received with marked coldness by the elder, 
and absolutely forbidden to join his company with her 
tender chicks, for the daily excursions to the creek. She 
pleaded in soft turkey lingo, her little ones peeped pite¬ 
ously, the entire harem seemed to intercede for her ; but 
the ancient patriarch of the poultry-yard was inexorable. 

Moral: Same as before. 


122 


FARM-YARD FRIENDS. 


There ! if any other man or woman can write a longer, 
more learned, or a more lovingly tedious and particular 
article, about pigs and chickens, and “ such small deer,” I 
shouldn’t like to see it. 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF 

MAPLE LAWN. 











V 






















































































































1 















THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 



When our 
young friend 
Nicholas 
Nickleby — 
Ah! me! Mr. 
Nickleby of 
D a w 1 i s h, 
Devonshire, 

i/i> 

must be an 
elderly gen¬ 
tleman by this time, a magistrate, 
and a grandpapa perhaps : he takes 
the chair at agricultural dinners, 
and fills it well; he keeps Christ¬ 
mas royally; and he stands by the 
British Constitution. Well, then, 
when our friend Nicholas Nickleby was young, and we 
were all young together, and when he was on his way to 


125 









126 THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 

Dotheboys Hall, and the coach was upset, and the pas¬ 
sengers took refuge in a lonely little inn, a gray-haired old 
gentleman, you remember, helped to while away the time by 
relating the pathetic history of “The Five Sisters of 
York.” 

I, too, have a story to tell of five sisters, as lovely in 
their lives, and as tenderly attached, as were they who 
sleep under the soft light of the memorial window in the 
great minster. But of another race are my five sisters, — 
natives of a wonderful land, undreamed of at the time when 
those merry maidens sat on the orchard-grass, at their em¬ 
broidery-frames, in the reign of the fourth Edward. 

Not noble are my heroines, though of an old family, held 
in high esteem in other times and climes, especially under 
the ancient republics. In the great square at Corinth 
once stood the bronze statue of a member of this family, 
honored as the emblem of liberty. The Egyptian branch, 
called Maniculate, became royal favorites, companions of a 
Pharaoh and a- Ramesis, and were venerated, as possessed 
by mysterious powers of divination. They were placed on 
the systrum during religious rites, and at death accorded 
costly embalmment and sepulture in the high temple at 
Bubastos. Indeed, the family could boast a goddess of 
their own, called Sancta Bubastis. Horapollo says that in 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 


the great Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis stood a statue 
of some representative of this favored race; and Cambyses 
is said to have taken Thebes by placing in the front of the 
Persian army a corps formed of members of a family so 
venerated by the Egyptians. Later, one of the race was a 
favorite of Mohammed, and accompanied him to Damascus. 

The English branch of the great family emigrated from 
Cyprus. They were at first so highly esteemed, that royal 
edicts for their protection were issued; but, under new 
conditions of society, they declined in dignity as a race, 
though they occasionally rose to distinction as individuals. 
Shakspeare makes mention of one of them in “ Macbeth.” 
One appears in the history of the Tower of London, as the 
useful friend of a distinguished prisoner of state. One, for 
eminent services, had his arms quartered with those of a 
high London official. One, accounted a base pretender 
to the family name, entered the royal navy, where he ran 
a sanguinary career, but won no honor. In striking con¬ 
trast to this pretender, who boasted as many appendages 
as a Spanish prince of the blood to his name, is the Manx 
representative of the family, with no appendage to speak of. 
Of the Celtic branch, several members became renowned 
in song and story, at Kilkenny, Ireland. 

To be brief, the grand family name of this ancient race 


128 THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 

is Felidcz , whence Felinci, whence Felis Doniestica , or, not 
to put too fine a point on it, The Cat. So it follows, that, 
quite in the order of nature, my five little sisters are just 
kittens! I have been thus particular in tracing their de¬ 
scent, because, being a republican, this matter of pedigree 
is of grave importance to me. 

Three months of a late summer and autumn we spent 
deep in the country, at a farmhouse, quite beyond the 
“ sound of the church-going bell.” The rush of the ex¬ 
press-train was there unheard ; and the shriek of the steam- 
whistle scarce offended the breathless quiet of summer 
noons. Indeed, so tame and attenuated did it become ere 
it reached our ears, that a young shanghai cock on the 
premises (a fowl with such surprisingly long, bare legs, and 
such an insufficiency of tail, that he looked like a work- 
house boy who has outgrown his charity-suit) could crow 
it down in the space of about two minutes. 

The farmhouse was a quaint stone structure, full a 
century old ; more like an English farmhouse than any 
thing I had seen since I saw the dear old mother- 
isle, fifteen long years before. It was mantled by ivy 
and climbing roses, and sentinelled by a gigantic pear- 
tree. Very green and stately was this tree, but old and 
spent, and that season so over-weighted with fruit, that one 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 129 


still August day he fell with a sharp groan, and laid all 
his burdened length upon the lawn. His family had been 
too much for him. It was a clear case of pear-i-cide. 

On the other side of the house we had a charming little 
lawn, shaded by maples, and made very fragrant and bright 
by choice flowers. Beyond this, stretched green meadows 
and golden grain-fields, skirted by a cool, inviting wood. 

But how, after all this introductory pomp and circum¬ 
stance, am I to bring in my five little kittens ? I wish I 
could bring them to you, as the children brought them to 
us from the stable one morning, all together, in a torn 
basket, which they quite overflowed in heads, tails, and 
limp little legs, as it was deposited on the grass of the 
maple-shaded lawn. 

Alice, our one daughter, has a tenderness, which I must 
confess she comes honestly by, for cats. On her first day 
at the farmhouse, she had been greatly excited by observ¬ 
ing a grave, gray, portly Uncle Thomas, strolling down one 
of the garden-walks. Hardly had she made acquaintance 
with him, who received her advances with a stately and 
lazy condescension, which only cats, babies, potentates, and 
members of Congress can assume, when she caught sight 
of a pretty, graceful grimalkin, evidently a young matron, 
who came from the direction of the barn, and timidly 


130 THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 

applied at the kitchen-door for rations. To her we both 
made polite overtures; but she was shy or proud, turned 
a deaf ear to our palaver, and skilfully eluded the grasp of 
our inviting hands. This was the mother of the five little 
kittens of Maple Lawn. 

Soon after we beheld, stealing out from the fastnesses 
of the asparagus-bed, a long, lank, black-and-white cat, with 
peculiarly wild and speculative eyes ; “ a lean and hungry 
Cassius” of a fellow, who, we were told, was a sort of feline 
outlaw and bushwhacker ; a prowler, and pauper whom 
nobody owned, not even the well-conditioned of his own 
race ; a very Ishmael among cats. We bespoke him cour¬ 
teously, but he was off like the wind. He was not to be 
wheedled or bamboozled out of his wildcat-hood and vaga¬ 
bondizing. 

We were told that there were several half-civilized cats 
haunting the barn and carriage-house; and we afterwards 
occasionally caught brilliant flashes of their society, but 
never became intimate with them. They came and went 
before our dazzled vision, 

“ Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, 

Ere one can say, It lightens.” 


But to return to the five little kittens, we left on the 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. I31 

lawn. They were white, at least the groundwork was 
white ; but they were all more or less marked with black 
and yellow, — eccentric dashings of Nature’s brush, which 
beautified her work with infinite variety. They were queer 
little roly-poly creatures, with stiff stumps of tails, very un¬ 
steady legs, and sealed-up eyes. They clawed each other, 
and tumbled about in an uncomfortable way, and with 
querulous mews seemed to be protesting against the gen¬ 
eral blankness of life. Yet when we took them out of 
their basket, and laid them on the soft turf, they stretched 
themselves in the sunlight, and seemed to guess what it 
was like, and to enjoy it. 

. Soon the mother came, — the pretty cat we had seen at 
the kitchen-door. She seemed glad to find her family in 
such pleasant quarters, and was herself no longer shy. 
She stole in among the helpless creatures so gently, so 
carefully, giving out at each step that indescribable mother- 
pussy murmur, which is next in tenderness to the coo of 
the pigeon, laid herself down, and called them to break¬ 
fast. It was curious to see how each little atomy groped 
its sure way to its place at table. And it was touching to 
observe the love, the joy, the utter content, with which the 
fair young mother regarded her treasures ; the pride with 
which she glanced round at Uncle Thomas, standing 


132 THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 

meekly by, — a look that seemed to say, after the manner 
of Sairey Gamp, “ Blessed is the father who hath his quiver 
full of sich.” 

Shortly after this, Nature took her nine-days’ interdict 
off the eyes of the five little kittens, and they could see, — 
very winkingly and blinkingly, and to small purpose at 
first ; but the fact seemed to make them more interesting 
to the children, who forthwith held a solemn conclave, and 
resolved on a general christening. The names they 
selected were rather flowery and romantic, but scarcely 
inappropriate, to wit, namely, Lily, Daisy, Pet, Snowdrop, 
and Dewdrop. 

All were so pretty, that each of the five was the favor¬ 
ite of some member of the household. Snowdrop was 
perhaps the beauty of the family, but she was not clever. 
White was she, with the exception of the tip of her tail, 
which was vividly tinted with the Austrian colors. Pure 
white was so evidently the first intention of Nature, 
that it looked as though the little marplot had dabbled 
her wee tail in the dye-pots prepared for variegating her 
sisters. 

In the long summer afternoons we almost deserted the 
house for the grateful shade of maples, and the breezes 
on the lawn ; and every morning that natal basket was 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 133 


brought from the barn, and we had the ever-diverting com¬ 
pany of the five little kittens. How amusing it was to 
watch their first timid explorations of the yard and the 
flower-beds ! They scrambled off at first, a yard or two at 
a time, in an aimless sort of a way, with gait unsteady, legs 
wide apart, and tails in air, borne stiff and erect as pikes. 
Sensuous little wretches, they loved to bask and roll lazily 
in the sunshine, to lie among the blossoming lilies, to 
steep themselves in the fragrance of roses and geraniums. 
It was long before they could carry the earthworks of a 
mound that stood in the centre of the lawn, and contained 
some of the choicest of the choice plants of our hostess. 
But they triumphed at last, and “revelled in the halls of 
the Montezumas.” Some of the most delicate flowers 
were cat-nipped in the bud, but less damage was done than 
we looked for. They would chase each other round and 
round the flowery heights like mad, and at last go leaping 
down the grassy declivity one after another, in a tiny, tum¬ 
bling, live cat-aract. 

It was pretty to see them play ball with oleander flowers, 
or leap up, and try to ring the bells of the fuchsia, or toss 
about the red blossoms of the bignonia, — a luxuriant vine 
that climbed high on the north side of the house, and 
trumpeted the march of the days with gorgeous bloom, 


12 


134 THE five little sisters of maple lawn. 

but which on windy nights got quite out-blown, and flung 
down its fairy instruments in despair. 

“ I am amused at their little short memories,” said Cole¬ 
ridge one day, after playing with a kitten, and seeing it 
pause in the eager pursuit of a ball of cotton, to chase its 
own tail. 

It must be that this illusive pursuit is the inevitable folly 
and absurdity of kittenhood : certain it is, that, as soon as 
the tails of our little kittens grew to sufficient importance 
to come within the range of their short vision, each set out 
on that futile, immemorial chase. They would often keep 
up the mad whirl, till, grown dizzy as waltzing belles, they 
would sink on the turf, panting and dishevelled. 

Once, looking up from “ The Tribune,” I thus apostro¬ 
phized crazy little Pet, in mid-career: “ Thou silly little 
beast ! hast thou no worthier object in life than thine 
own poor caudal appendage, ever tempting, ever eluding, 
which it sorely wearies thee to chase, and hurts thee to 
grasp ? ” 

She paused an instant, winked wisely, and seemed to 
respond, “Nay, thou sad-eyed champion of womanhood, 
thou pale pen-drudge, thou weary student of politics, in 
what is the round of a woman of fashion nobler than my 
merry chase ? Are the efforts of a poor author to make 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 135 


both ends meet, of a statesman to attain his political ends 
by forever ‘ swinging round a circle,’ more encouraging and 
less illusive than mine, prithee ? ” 

Every prodigal summer day brought, with new blossoms 
to the garden, new charms and graces to our pets, till they 
grew to be the most bewitching, distracting little creatures 
imaginable. 

“ I’ve paced much in this weary mortal round; 

And sage experience bids me this declare: ”— 

I have seldom encountered elsewhere, in America, Eu¬ 
rope, Asia, or Africa, — especially in the two last-mentioned 
continents, — six such fair examples of feline grace, beauty, 
virtue, and sprightliness, as made up this incomparable 
group. 

I say six ; for the young mother, though usually main¬ 
taining proper dignity and discipline, sometimes frolicked 
and gambolled with the merriest abandon , and showed her¬ 
self to be the spryest and most kittenish of them all, as 
well as the most comely and graceful, — 

“ Fairest of her daughters, Eve.” 

They were touching examples of sisterly affection, these 
soulless little things. They drank in harmony with their 


I36 THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 

mother-milk, and didn’t scrouge much for the best places, 
for there was evidently a choice ; some being like “ flowing 
wells,” and others requiring rather hard pumping. They 
purred in concert, took sweet counsel together, washed 
each other’s faces, did each other’s back hair, and always 
slept in each other’s arms. Sometimes they were so con¬ 
glomerated, in slumber, into a shining, palpitating, mur¬ 
murous heap, that it was hard to tell where one kitten left 
off, and another began. 

Snowdrop was evidently the beauty and pet of the fam¬ 
ily. Mother and sisters coddled and flattered her. I have 
seen three or four caressing her at one time, while she sat 
up like the grand lama, gravely receiving the homage, 
which was toilet-service as well. 

Ah! hard and worldly must-have been the heart, and dull 
the sense of beauty and humor, that could not be touched 
by the sight of our wonderfu’ wee baudrons. To most of 
our visitors they were objects of ardent admiration ; but 
so meek and sweet-tempered were they that we always 
dreaded for them the coming of certain small children, 
who insisted on lugging them about by the handle, and 
squeezing them as though they had been Dutch dolls, 
to get the mew out. Much I marvelled at the great 
patience of the little victims, whose satin paws sheathed 
such keen weapons of defence. 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 1 37 

One of our visitors delighted us with an original cat 
anecdote. At a certain farmhouse dwelt two pet cats, 
who became mothers at about the same time. One had a 
fine litter of healthy kits: the other had but two, both 
sickly and short-lived. When the last died, the poor 
mother mourned over it with almost human tenderness 
and persistence. But at last she arose, quietly removed 
the little body from her bed, took food, washed her face, 
went straightway to the nest of the other cat, gently took 
up one of the supernumerary kittens, and returned with it 
to her own place, adopting it as her own. The mother 
made no resistance, and never sought to regain her off¬ 
spring. Perhaps she was a bad mouser and general pro¬ 
vider ; she may have considered the scarcity of young 
robins ; it may have been a bad grasshopper season : but let 
us rather hope that her feline sensibilities were touched by 
the desolation of her neighbor, whose hopes had been 
blighted, and whose kittens “ were not.” 

But to return to the five little kittens of Maple Lawn, 
who were “ all alive, O ! ” Ah ! pleasant and innocent dis¬ 
traction for sad heart and weary brain, to watch these 
dainty, delirious bits of vitality, in their mad antics of fun 
and adventure ; to see them develop, day after day, new 
arts of cunning and agility, new powers of mischief and 


;a* 


138 THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 

gymnastics ; to watch them scalkig walls, mounting trees, 
wrestling, rolling, tumbling, darting out upon each other, 
sideways, from behind bush or bench, or other “ coigne of 
vantage,” skirmishing with beetles and grasshoppers, and 
making mad leaps after butterflies. Once we saw Miss 
Daisy dealing rather roughly with a honey-bee, who seemed 
disabled in a wing, and was making his way across the 
flagstones of the walk, bound, perhaps, for some Apisian 
hospital, when puss surprised him. He wheeled and re¬ 
treated ; but she anticipated him, and made hostile demon¬ 
strations. Considering the strength of the enemy, the 
contest was a serious one for him. Life was at stake, and 
life was sweet in honey-time. “ To be, or not to be ” a 
bee, was the question. So he valiantly gave fight ; and 
poor puss soon retired in confusion, with a hot foot. 

But more laughable it was to watch an attack made by 
the combined kitten forces on a poor old hermit of a toad, 
who once upon a time ventured forth from his cell under 
the stone door-step to enjoy the evening air. While hop¬ 
ping quietly along, he was discovered and surrounded by 
the saucy little troop, who charged upon him, and followed 
him up, and headed him off, pestered him, and made game 
of him, and looked all the while as frisky and bewitching 
as the pretty she-devils that tormented poor St. Anthony. 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 1 39 

But more laughable still was an affair we witnessed be¬ 
tween one of the older cats and a large tortoise found one 
day foraging in the garden. The cat made a careful re- 
connoissance before moving on the enemy’s works, then, 
determined to “ push things,” pranced up in gallant style ; 
but catching sight of an ugly, outstretched, vibrating head, 
he fell back to a new base, from which he made a second 
advance, and “ felt the enemy ” a little round the edges. 
Suddenly the pickets were called in, on front, flank, and 
rear: the enemy had retired into his intrenchments, whence 
it would be difficult to shell him out. It was evidently a 
position hard to take by strategy or assault; and, after sit¬ 
ting down before it for a while, our old moustache aban¬ 
doned the siege. 

This same tortoise had given our hostess a great deal of 
annoyance by devouring her young cucumbers. At last, 
after having graven on his shell certain letters, by which 
he might be known if again encountered, she banished 
him, as a trespasser and ^cumberer of the ground. The 
very next morning he was found in his old haunts, hav¬ 
ing made a night march. She sent him yet farther off, 
and again he returned. Then she had him blindfolded, and 
carried to the extremity of the farm, beyond the creek. 
But he must have taken up his steady, tardigradous march 


140 THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 

at once, without waiting for pontoons ; for in a wonderfully 
short time he was back on the field of his old operations, 
determined “ to fight the battle out on that line,” &c. 

But to return to the five little kittens of Maple Lawn. 

Though so full to overflowing of frolic and mischief, 
wild tricks, and merry whimsies, they were yet rare and 
excellent sleepers. To their pampered senses, life was a 
fine frolic, a tipsy delight, or a soft oblivion. There was 
for them, however, a twilight state of half-consciousness, — 
a neutral ground of being and dreaming, when they dozed 
in the sun, or under the roses, and purred and winked, and 
were deliciously lazy, sensuous, senseless prodigals of 
time. 

On moonlight nights they positively refused to sleep, 
but were all abroad, gleaming and leaping over the lawn, 
lighting up shadowy places, and looking themselves like 
stray bits of moonlight incarnated. 

Later in the season, on chill and rainy afternoons we 
had that rare, old-fashioned luxury, a wood-fire in a great 
open fire-place in the parlor; and our pets were brought 
in, for we thought they would enjoy the warmth and glow 
immensely. But they were evidently awe-struck at the 
sight, and from a safe distance eyed, with startled or 
solemn faces, the beautiful lambent mystery, the splendid 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. I4I 

terror. And yet they had never feared the great sun, in 
his utmost midsummer glory. As his mighty mantle 
rested on the earth, they had slept under its folds, and 
played with its golden fringe. 

So we, unawed by the majestic mysteries of Nature, 
stand wide-eyed with wonder before the imitative marvels 
of human art, with their brief crackle and blaze. The 
spurt of a rocket dims the trail of a comet; a balloon can 
cause a solar eclipse ; a Strasbourg clock can cheapen the 
mechanism of a universe. 

But to return to the five little kittens of Maple Lawn. 
They ever grew in favor as in comeliness ; and so when, in 
the early autumn, there came to me a dark, dread time of 
sickness, robbing that golden season of its light and bloom, 
and gracious, relenting coolness, it did not quite banish the 
memory of my merry little “ ancients.” As soon as the 
first bitterness and stress of suffering had passed, and the 
low-ebbed life began to flow back, I asked for them ; feeling 
that somehow they, mute little creatures of a single sum¬ 
mer, could best assure me of the unwasted fulness, the 
quick vitality, the spring and rebound and eternal gladness, 
of Nature. I almost felt that they could help me to move 
easily, and breathe freely, as the frog taught the philosopher 
to swim. 


142 THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 

I often had them on my bed, all five, where they slept 
diligently most of the time, finding me but languid com¬ 
pany, but where the sight of their play or repose alike 
seemed to do me good. 

In intervals of listless ease from pain, I watched the 
pretty creatures ; and, remembering the separations and 
tragedies that await the happiest feline families, — 

“ It was a sight that made me grieve, 

Although the sight was fair.” 


As the time for our return to the city drew near, specu¬ 
lations on their after-fate often troubled us. There was 
such an alarming increase in the cat-population of the 
farm, and the creek was at such a convenient distance ! 
But finally the children formed themselves into a Kittens’- 
Aid-Society, and obtained the promise of good homes, in 
neighboring houses, for four of the sisters : the fifth was to 
remain in her old home. So, one dreary morning, we took 
leave of them all, Lily, Daisy, Pet, Snowdrop, and Dew- 
drop, with tolerable cheerfulness ; though, the night before, 
Alice had bedewed each pretty, unconscious little head 
with childish tears. Even now she speaks of them wist¬ 
fully, lovingly ; while mamma — well, I am not ashamed to 
say that those jolly little companions of ours, those small 


THE FIVE LITTLE SISTERS OF MAPLE LAWN. 143 


summer friends, sinless and soulless, fond and forgetful, 

innocent ingrates, honest inconstants, will long fill a bright 

* 

space in my grateful memory with simple gladness and 
careless life ; and no proudest human philosopher shall 
“ scat ” them out with his arrogant reason, or bully them 
with his immortality. Ay, long after each dainty creature 
has lived out her nine appointed lives, we shall remember 
them, — the five little kittens of Maple Lawn. 





\ 




l 




A 






























































THE PERL 








































THE PERL 

T was last fall a year, that, on our return 
home from the country, we all of us took 
note of a strange cat, of colossal mould, 
and of a rich, dark complexion, with tiger¬ 
like marks, and peculiarly fierce, brigandish aspect, that 
haunted the rear of our dwelling, and sometimes mounted 
to the roof of our back buildings, there to discourse most 
diabolical music, comparable to nothing on earth but Jap¬ 
anese singing. 

A wild, rough, marauding fellow was he, with a defiant, 
dissipated look, that discouraged all thought of domestica¬ 
tion and redemption. He evidently preferred his roving 




M7 





148 


THE PERI. 


habits, and “ free, unhoused condition,” to the steady-going 
ways, and gentle pussy proprieties, of respectable tame cats. 
We sometimes made amicable overtures; but he would 
have naught to do with us. In the very bosom of metro¬ 
politan society, he was an irreclaimable barbarian. He 
cultivated none of the amiable arts of polite life, except 
stealing. He sternly kept himself without the pale of civ¬ 
ilization, unless it took the form of a milk-pail. With a 
chicken-wing, his fierce timidity took flight. He would 
run any risks with a turkey-leg. So matters continued, till 
the winter came on, unusually sharp and severe. Then 
on stormy nights we would sometimes catch a glimpse of 
our gay rover, peering through the back-parlor window, 
into the light and warmth, with a plaintive, wistful look, 
that said plainly, “ Poor Tom’s a-cold ! ” But as soon as 
we offered to lift the sash, and let him in, he was off in a 
flash of brindled lightning. 

As the weather grew more inclement, so regularly did 
he come, and so piteously did he crouch out there in the 
cold and darkness, that we gave him the name of “ The 
Peri,” in memory of the one described in “ Lalla Rookh,” 
who, 

“ At the gate 

Of Eden stood, disconsolate.’* 


THE PERI. 


149 


At last there came a time of utter discomfiture and 
unconditional surrender for our bold outlaw. A north-east 
storm of cutting sleet and biting cold was too much for 
his wild cathood. He came to the window, and beat his 
poor head against the pane, the crystal gates of his para¬ 
dise, crying wildly to be let in. We could hardly trust our 
ears ; and for a moment nobody stirred to lift the hospita¬ 
ble sash, so often lifted in vain. Indeed, “ thrice the brin- 
ded cat had mewed before we admitted him and a small 
avalanche together. The poor wretch was covered with 
snow, and almost stiff with cold ; but he was utterly sub¬ 
dued, and as meek and serious as the “ discreetest, wisest, 
virtuousest, best ” -old tabby in the neighborhood. The 
eye, erst so fierce and bold, was full of soft beseeching; 
and the tail, late carried aloft like the black banner of a 
buccaneer, drooped dejectedly. He had struck his colors. 

After gazing about him in an abjectly deprecating man¬ 
ner, he slowly crept up to the register, from which he evi¬ 
dently perceived the grateful warmth to emanate ; then he 
laid himself down on his side, stretching his lusty limbs in 
a perfect ecstasy of comfort-taking. 

After a time he thrust his paws between the bars, as 
though to clutch yet more of that rare heat; so like the 
old summer-glow on the south side of a chimney, that per- 


l 3* 


150 


THE PERI. 


haps he speculated on the probability of our having put 
down the sun for winter use. Anon he gently beat the 
hearth-rug with his tail, and then he purred. And what 
purring was that ? It was no more like to any civilized effort 
in that line you have ever heard than is the buffalo’s exul¬ 
tant bellow to the lowing of patient kine. It was the 
most sonorous feline trumpeting we ever listened to. It 
bespoke the dignified satisfaction of a gentlemanly guer¬ 
illa who had capitulated, and made excellent terms. After 
this chivalric salute he slept. 

Waking, he seemed to experience an access of gratitude; 
for he rose, and, going from one to another of the family 
group, rubbed against us, purring vehemently, and was in 
turn caressed by us. He seemed to become more and 
more elevated, and indeed intoxicated, by his reception, till 
he came to the master of the house; who, buried in the 
evening papers, and veiled in cigar-smoke, took no notice 
whatever of our strange guest. Soon it became evident 
that this indifference troubled him. In vain we called him 
to us, lavished praises on his beauty, and with soft, smooth¬ 
ing touches followed his spinal column from the lordly 
head to the tail, again borne proudly aloft. Nothing could 
comfort this feline Haman, while Mordecai, absorbed in 
cigar and politics, withheld his homage. He returned to 


THE PERI. 


*51 

the charge, and finally elicited a kind word, and a smooth¬ 
ing of his brindled coat, as an encoi/ragement to virtuous 
living ; then he was satisfied. 

Our Peri was not thrust quite out of paradise that night, 
but permitted to remain in the kitchen. After that, he 
was, in inclement weather, allowed lodgings in the cellar, 
and regular rations. Every evening he came to the parlor 
window, and was let in, and petted, and played with, though 
his playfulness always partook of a ferocious, tigerish 
character, more perilous than satisfactory. The quickness 
of that creature’s motions was too much for human eyes or 
muscles. The sharpness of his teeth and claws was most 
extraordinary ; and, when he took a good hold, there was 
no giving-in. He was a cat of decidedly Celtic organiza¬ 
tion, ready at any instant to fly from a frolic to a fight. He 
seemed to be always inviting somebody to tread on his 
(coat-)tail, he laid it out at such an inordinate length, and 
switched it about so defiantly. So jealous was he of the 
dignity of that same spinal prolongation, that the kindest 
hand that in stroking him proceeded to extremities, and 
trespassed on caudal territory, came to grief. 

He appeared to love us in his wild way, and to consider 
himself as a sort of independent retainer, or a genteel poor 
relation of the family ; but proud, oh ! very proud, — which, 


152 


THE PERI. 


again, was quite in the line of that agreeable sort of rela¬ 
tive ; and therefore he did not care to extend his acquaint¬ 
ance among our friends. When he came to the parlor 
window at night, and, looking in, saw that we had visitors, 
he invariably declined to enter. So we could never parade 
our half-converted barbarian, our Dacian captive. 

In the summer we again left town, and remained away 
till late in the autumn. On our return, we asked tidings of 
our Peri, and were told that his marauding, vagabondizing 
days were over ; that he had been adopted by a most 
charitable family, next door, and had settled down into a 
cat of average respectability, having sowed his wild oats, 
seen life, and found that “ really there was nothing in it.” 
In his new home he is petted, and fed high, and is in a fair 
way to be taught the solemn moral lesson that “ honesty is 
the best policy,” and that virtue pays. He has a sleek 
coat, and a general well-to-do look, and answers now to the 
aristocratic name of “Sidney,” to which we have added the 
“Sir Philip.” But even that title is scarcely patrician 
enough to suit his present style ; for the lofty and poten- 
tatish air of that cat is indescribable. Why, his very smell¬ 
ers have an imperial cock to them ! To see him as we saw 
him only this morning, nonchalantly promenading on the 
area-wall, with a “ raw lump of red liver in his mouth,” — 


THE PERI. 


153 


the envy of all the lean cats in the alley, — was to see 
something imposing. It was like looking, through a re¬ 
versed opera-glass, at a royal Bengal tiger lugging off his 
gory prey. And then to see him on the flat of the back 
building, strolling up and down in the sun, taking his 
“ constitutional,” and humming a popular cat-march the 
while, were enough to remind you of King Ahasuerus air¬ 
ing himself on the roof of his palace of Shushan. Were 
his tail a train of Tyrian purple, woven with gold, he could 
not wear it with a more regal sweep and swag. But, alas 
for feline gratitude and constancy! he never more comes to 
the back-parlor window, to, Peri-like, peer wistfully through 
the pane, and meow to be taken in. He has forgotten the 
forlorn estate from which we lifted him ; he has forgotten 
us. He passes us almost daily, and cuts as he goes, giving 
us not so much as a tip of the tail by way of salute. 

Well, go thy ways, Sir Philip ! Ingratitude and incon¬ 
stancy are not confined to thy soulless and reasonless 
race. Are we not also helped out of many a scrape, — 
sheltered, warmed, and fed for years on years ? And does 
our gratitude keep pace with our indebtedness ? Is our 
remembrance in proportion to our immortality ? “ I am 

amused at their little short memories,” said the poet, 
speaking of some playful kittens. But are our short mem- 


154 


THF PERI. 


ories amusing to the divine helpers who rescue us, in the 
night of misfortune, from the tempest of passion, and the 
peril of the sin that paralyzes the mind’s best powers, 
chills the heart, and wraps the conscience in a deadly 
sleep? Ah, Sir Philip, though in Egypt thy venerated 
race were given to divination, it is doubtful if thou canst 
answer such grave questions for us. “ No, friend,” thou 
mightest say, “ I cannot moralize ; but then thou canst not 


mouse. 


BOB: HIS LIFE AND DEATH. 





















































• 















































. 






BOB: HIS LIFE AND DEATH. 


BELIEVE that all the members of the pleas¬ 
ant household in which I am now tarrying for 
a brief season are genuine bird-lovers. The 
little gilded mansion that hangs in the sunny 
dining-room is never without its happy inmate or inmates. 
I propose to sketch, simply as may be, the lives of a couple 
of these small tenants and dependents ; and I enter on my 
agreeable task in no trifling mood. I am by no means 
wanting in reverence for the subject of my biographical 
essays. It has always seemed to me, that, while the brood¬ 
ing tenderness of the divine mind is especially revealed in 
flowers, its exuberant joy takes most varied and wondrous 
form in birds. They seem to us among the luxuries, the 



14 


157 




153 


BOB : HIS LIFE AND DEATH. 


beautiful superfluities, of creation ; they may be the 
necessities of the divine economy. We could forego them ; 
God could not. In some glad, sweet rest of creative 
power, — after the seven labors of the “ seven stars,” — 
perhaps, out of some divinest atmosphere, birds fluttered 
into being. 

On the whole, I doubt if Boswell had more honest ad¬ 
miration for Dr. Johnson, Carlyle for the great Fritz, or 
Benvenuto Cellini for himself, than I entertain for the 
small personages whose lives and fortunes I propose faith¬ 
fully to chronicle. 

Bob was a mocking-bird of pure descent evidently. He 
was probably a runaway, or a Southern refugee ; for he was 
first discovered on the roof of the house, in a condition of 
extreme exhaustion, ragged, starved, and forlorn. He was 
easily captured, and, weary of vagabondizing, took kindly to 
domestication. In a comfortable cage, with all the modern 
improvements, and well provisioned, he soon began to pick 
up, and thrive. His soiled and tattered plumage of grayish 
brown became trim and glossy; he held up his head in a 
peculiarly jaunty and debonair manner, suggestive of an 
invisible cocked-hat, with a tilt to one side ; and at last 
burst into song, sending forth such brave, strong notes 
from his well-rounded throat, that the question of his sex, 


BOB : HIS LIFE AND DEATH. 


159 


which had been a matter of some discussion in the 
household, was considered settled. “ There, now,” said 
the young gentleman who had discovered and captured 
the wanderer, “ the bird sings like a male, it bears itself 
like a male, it is a male ; and its name shall be Bob.” 

All this sounded very wise and conclusive ; but the laugh 
was turned against the young naturalist, a few mornings 
later, when there was discovered on the floor of the bird’s 
cage a little brown, speckled egg ! Yet the masculine name 
had been so firmly fixed on my lady-bird, before that start¬ 
ling discovery, that it could not easily be thrown aside. 
She continued to be called Bob ; and that little matter of 
the egg, her sole indiscretion, was soon forgotten. In 
short, she became he, to all intents and purposes. 

Bob was by no means a bird of dainty appetite, but ate 
greedily of all sorts of fruits, of cake and meat, having an 
especial relish for beefsteak and mutton-chop. Being 
singularly ingenious, he soon contrived to open the door 
of his cage ; and he would step coolly forth, and make the 
tour of the dining-room, whenever it so pleased him. It 
was observed that he was most likely to make his appear¬ 
ance when he saw preparations for a meal going on. He 
would perch on a chair-back, or the clock-shelf, till the 
servant came up bearing the viands or dainties he most 


160 BOB : HIS LIFE AND DEATH. 

affected ; when he would dart forward, pounce upon platter 
or cake-basket, and frequently carry off more than his 
weight of plunder. Not satisfied with these highway rob¬ 
beries, he would often flit around the table, light on some 
friendly shoulder, and thence make sallies and forays, con¬ 
fiscating currants and grapes, and intercepting supplies of 
cakes and tarts. 

Very soon this remarkable bird manifested qualities of 
heart equalled only by his cleverness. For the master of 

the house, Gen. T-, he showed a tender and loyal 

affection that was quite touching. Whenever this friend 
appeared, Bob would fly to meet him, light on his shoulder, 
his head, or his hand, and indulge in various little jubilant 
demonstrations. It was finally noticed, that, as dinner-time 
approached, he would leave his cage, and perch on a stand 
behind the door opening on to the landing of the stairway, 
where he actually listened with comical intentness for the 
sound of the general’s latch-key. When that was heard, 
followed by the quick, firm, familiar step, he danced with 
delight; and, when the general himself appeared, he darted 
with a swift whirr to his shoulder, where he fluttered and 
twittered, and “ rode sublime.” 

True to his sex, — supposititious, not real, — Bob was 
given to jealousy. He would suffer no rival near the 



BOB : HIS LIFE AND DEATH. l6l 

throne. An unfortunate little dog was the cause of some 
fearful outbreaks of this unlovely passion. Bob would first 
scold vehemently : then, if the offender did not display 
“ the better part of valor,” and fall back, he would attack 
on front, flank, and rear; and invariably did he drive the 
enemy from the field. He was even jealous of the mas¬ 
ter’s occasional companion and solace, the cigar. He 
pecked at it, protested against it, and finally pounced upon 
it when it was in full blast, and bore it away in triumph. 
Here was a bird after James Parton’s own heart! 

There was a certain friend and frequent visitor of the 
family, to whom Bob was attentive in a peculiar manner/ 
more startling than agreeable. This gentleman, though 
scarcely of middle age, had a shining, bald expanse “ on 
the top of his head,” to which he naturally did not care to 
have the attention of the company called ; but no sooner 
would Bob see him enter the room than he would break 
from his cage, and make directly for that shining dome, 
where he perched unsteadily, vainly endeavoring to fix his 
claws in the glacial surface. The untenable position 
seemed to have a strange attraction for him; and he 
repeated his attempts to hold it, till the visitor, half frantic, 
begged leave to keep on his hat, as a protection against 
that “ devil-bird,” as he called Bob. 




162 BOB : HIS LIFE AND DEATH. 

One day, while the windows were open, and Bob enjoy¬ 
ing the freedom of the apartment, no one dreaming of his 
making his escape, a wild impulse to see the world again, 
entered his little brain, and he darted forth at once. He 
did not go far, however, in search of adventures, but, after 
circling round for a little while, perched on the chimney of 
a neighboring house, where he gazed about him in a for¬ 
lorn, bewildered way, as though appalled by the vastness 
of the city, and by his own folly and temerity. He was 
evidently looking anxiously for his home ; but the dreary 
uniformity of Philadelphia architecture was too much for 
*him. At last his master appeared at an attic-window, and 
whistled. Bob turned his little brown head ; he listened, 
he flew; and the next moment he was on that beloved 
master’s shoulder, as happy as a king, and as penitent as 
the Prodigal Son. Returned to his cage, he ate and drank, 
fluttered up and down, swung on his perch, and finally 
burst into a joyous canticle of his own composing. He 
had seen the big world, and found it but a howling wilder¬ 
ness of brick and mortar, of barren flats, and monotonous 
chimney-pots. He never voluntarily left his home again ; 
but the following summer the family went to board in a 
farmhouse, and, of course, took Bob with them. Here, 
though strange and a little sullen at first, he finally became 


bob: his life and death. 163 

quite domesticated, fell into all his charming old ways of 
“breaking jail,” stealing from the table, looking out for 
bald-headed gentlemen, making love to his master,, and 
scolding and mocking all the other pets on the premises. 

There were about the farmhouse two large gray cats, 
very similar in form and complexion, striped and spotted 
and whiskered alike, but in character, and habits of life, 
widely different. They were not friends, in fact, were 
decidedly unfriends, dwelling together in disunity and 
brotherly enmity ; except that they really did not dwell 
together at all, and that only one of them ever showed 
much fight. This one had his headquarters at the barn, 
and was called “ Wild Moses.” The other was a quiet, 
steady-going house-pet, and was called, by way of distinc¬ 
tion, “Tame Moses.” This last was now and then the 
object of Bob’s hostile demonstration ; but he always gave 
way before his small adversary in the most magnanimous, 
or pussy -lanimous manner. The way in which victorious 
Bob would strut away from the field of combat was 
something well worth seeing. But one day it happened 
that Wild Moses, who occasionally came bushwhacking 
about the garden, made a raid upon the hall, and from 
thence pushed his way into the dining-room. There 
Bob, who was taking his “ constitutional ” on the sunny 


BOB : HIS LIFE AND DEATH. 


164 

window-sill, caught sight of him, and evidently tcok him 
for his civilized kins-cat. It was a fatal case of mistaken 
identity ; for the courageous bird, descending at once from 
his “ coigne of vantage,” walked deliberately up to the in¬ 
truder, with defiance bristling in every feather. Wild 
Moses not only stood his ground, but opened wide his 
savage mouth, and — How can I go on ? When the fierce 
creature was overtaken, and compelled to drop his prey, 
the bright eyes of the bird were already dim ; that little 
loving, loyal, valiant heart had ceased to beat! 

This was the last of poor Bob, except his funeral obse¬ 
quies, which were very touching and imposing. He was 
laid to sleep under a currant-bush (he was very fond of 
currants), completely shrouded with rose-leaves, and with 
his poor little head pillowed upon pansies. 

It was a very little brown lump of clay that those 
flowers and that earth hid from sight; no bird-kin 
mourned for him, not a songster hushed her merry morn¬ 
ing lay ; but not a little brightness and blitheness went 
out of certain human lives that day, — ceased, like the 
ceasing of a pleasant strain of music, at Bob’s small 
grave. 


MASTER TOM’S EXPERIMENT. 

























MASTER TOM’S EXPERIMENT. 

OM and Alice Hayley stood at an open win¬ 
dow, one brilliant, cold morning in December, 
about five years ago, feeding the snow-birds ; 
or, rather, Alice was feeding them, while 
on with a lofty, superior air. As the birds 
hopped about, eagerly picking up the nice white bread¬ 
crumbs, Alice exclaimed, “ The dear little darlings ! how 
thankful they are ! Tom, don’t you suppose they take me 
for their Providence ? A rather small one though, ain’t I ? ” 
“ Oh ! a good-sized one for such little birds,” replied 
Tom. “ If they were eagles, now, why, /’d about do.” 

“ But, Tom, if I really was their Providence, — or say 
their fairy queen, — I’d make it summer for them the whole 

167 









168 


MASTER TOM’S EXPERIMENT. 


year round. I wouldn’t send the frost to bite their little 
feet, and give them chilblains, nor the snow to cover up 
their food, and make dear little paupers of them. They are 
born in the spring, you know, into such a pleasant, sunny 
world, where berries and worms are plenty ; and it must be 
a dreadful disappointment to them when every thing 
changes so, — when the old earth gets her back up, and 
turns away from the sun, and there’s what’s called a cool¬ 
ness between them. But, Tom, why don’t the snow-birds 
go south with the swallows, and other sensible birds ? Are 
they afraid of the war down there ? ” 

“ Maybe so ; and maybe they are more ‘ loyal ’ North¬ 
erners, and won’t secede ; or maybe, when they were made, 
the instinct that tells the swallows when and where to 
travel, was left out of them. Poor little mites of things ! 
there isn’t much room for sense in their wee heads.” 

Then wise Tom leaned back against the window-frame, 
and thrust his hands into his pockets, and thought and 
thought, till Alice had fed out all her crumbs, closed the 
window, and run away from the frosty air to warm herself 
by the nursery fire. And this was what Master Tom said 
to himself: “ The Bible says that our heavenly Father has 
a care for the sparrows ; but it doesn’t say any thing about 
snow-birds, and, really, Providence don’t seem to be look- 


MASTER TOM’S EXPERIMENT. 


169 


ing out for the poor things at all. So why shouldn’t Alice 
and I take them in hand, and make them comfortable for 
the winter? We’ll turn the den into a regular bird-asylum, 
where they can have a little summer all to themselves, and 
go on with their laying and setting and hatching, in spite 
of Jack Frost. We’ll show them a pretty good imitation 
of Providence, anyhow. Won’t their hearts sing for joy, 
though ? ” 

Now, Tom’s “den,” alias his “shop,” alias his “study,” 
alias his “ laboratory,” was a cosy little chamber just over 
the nursery, nicely warmed by a register from the furnace, 
and with a south window which caught all the sunshine 
there was going. It was so close and warm that Tom’s 
mamma would not allow him to shut himself up in it long 
at a time, without the window-sash being let down a little 
from the top. Here was really a small perpetual summer. 

All that day, there was whispering between Tom and 
Alice, much running back and forth, and arranging,— a de¬ 
lightfully mysterious plot on foot. Plants, belonging to the 
children, were carried up to the den from the conservatory, 
and evergreens brought from the woods, and hung about 
the walls. By much “beating about the bush,” Tom found 
two bird’s-nests in tolerably sound condition, one of which 
he fixed in a rose, and the other in an orange-tree, where it 


5 


170 MASTER TOM’S EXPERIMENT. 

seemed they must look very tempting indeed to any loving 
pair of birds, ambitious to found a family. Then the two 
young philanthropists spent a considerable portion of their 
pocket-money in the purchase of bird-seed, and a pretty 
cage designed for such as might prefer to live in an exclu¬ 
sive and artificial way, and keep house in style. Then they 
were ready to commence operations. 

Now for the birds ! Alas, they found it not so easy to 
get possession of those small objects of charity. In vain 
they set the window of the den wide open, with its tempt¬ 
ing show of flowers and greenery, and a little table set out 
with crumbs and seed : the feathered mendicants were as 
shy about entering it as thoughtless worldly people are 
about entering churches that offer the most extensive gos¬ 
pel privileges. At last the children appealed for help to 
one of the farm-boys, an obliging, ingenious young gentle¬ 
man by the name of Jerry Hicks, who furnished them with 
a bird-snare so cunningly contrived, that, the very first 
morning, they caught in it no less than four birds, — enough 
to begin the asylum with. The next morning they caught 
but two ; and after that, strange to say, no snow-birds would 
come near enough to the cottage of the Hayleys to take 
a sprinkling of salt on - their tails. The shrewd little 
vagabonds had taken the alarm from the fate of their 


MASTER TOM’S EXPERIMENT. 


171 


companions ; and preferring beggary, cold, and want, with 
freedom, to ease, warmth, and plenty, with imprisonment, 
they kept at a safe distance. So Tom and Alice were 
obliged to content themselves with their small colony. 

At first, when a little recovered from the fright of their 
capture, the birds ate greedily, and were evidently troubled 
with indigestion and excessive thirst; but after a while their 
appetites fell off, and they seemed, to their munificent 
patrons, even dainty and thankless. The strangeness of the 
place inclined them to silence perhaps ; for they did not sing 
or chirp, and they seemed utterly unsocial and untamable. 
Allie was sorry to find that they did not bathe and plume 
themselves, like canaries and other “ quality ” birds, but held 
to their wild country ways, evidently making no account of 
roses, japonicas, orange-trees, and painted cages. As for 
the nests, to Tom’s intense disgust, they took no notice of 
them whatever, and showed no disposition to lay eggs to 
order, and to sit upon compulsion. They were not to be 
beguiled or bamboozled into the belief that the real spring 
had come, or even St. Valentine’s Day,— the time for 
choosing their mates, and taking upon themselves the 
duties and responsibilities of domestic life. Very soon 
they began to mope and peak and pine, and to look shabby, 
and move languidly. Each tiny little tip-up of a tail lost 


172 


MASTER TOM’S EXPERIMENT. 


its jaunty wag, and its pert bob, and actually looked limp 
and desponding. They would sometimes gather together 
in corners, and sulk ; sometimes perch on the window- 
frame, and look out on the snowy lawn in a wistful way 
that was quite touching to behold ; and, one day, Alice 
said, “I tell you what, Tom, it's a failure! The poor 
little things are dreadfully homesick and mopy; suppose 
we let them go, to look out for themselves a little. Maybe 
that’s God’s way of caring for them. I don’t believe he 
forgot them, though he didn’t send them down South, 
where the oranges and peanuts grow. He thought a little 
hardship would be good for them. Let’s set them free 
again.” 

“ No, no, Allie,” said Tom : “ wait a while, and they’ll get 
used to it. If Queen Victoria should take you into her 
palace, and give you new dresses, and plum-pudding every 
day, you’d be homesick at first; but, after a while, you’d 
get used to grandeur, and forget all about us and the 
farm, and be as fine and stuck-up as the Queen’s own 
girls.” 

“ No, I won’t! ” exclaimed Alice indignantly: “ I will 
fret myself to death, just as sure as ever she does it; and 
so will the birds, I tell you now! ” 

It seemed Alice was not a bad prophetess ; for the very 


MASTER TOM’S EXPERIMENT. 


173 


next morning, when the children visited their asylum, they 
found two of their tiny charges lying on their backs, on 
the window-sill, with their little legs in the air, stiff and 
cold, and very dead indeed! With a cry of grief and 
horror, Alice threw open the window, and actually drove 
the survivors out into the fresh air; which, fortunately, was 
very mild that morning. They paused on the porch below 
the window, and tried their feeble wings, before trusting 
themselves to go farther against the wind ; but they did 
fly at last, by easy stages, into the wood, and, to the best of 
my knowledge and belief, never returned, even for rations. 

Tom and Alice removed the snow from a violet-bed, and 
there buried their ill-fated pets. After his sad duty was 
ended, Tom stood looking thoughtfully down. 

, “ What are you thinking of ? ” asked Alice. 

“I was thinking, Allie — well, I was thinking that the 
old Providence was the best one after all, even for little 
. birds.” 





WAIF. 





WAIF. 


amiable little friend of ours was, as his 
name imports, a foundling. One morning 
in the summer of 1866, after a fearful storm, 
yet well remembered, he was picked up under 
a tree, from which, a half-fledged birdling, he had evidently 
fallen, beaten down by the rain. Of the other members 
of his family, or of the nest in which he may have rocked, 
well pleased, in the soft, soughing wind that preceded the 
tempest, no traces were seen. In fact, about his birth 
and parentage, and earliest history, there is a something 
of mystery, of uncertainty, decidedly romantic. Yet he 
looked little enough like a hero to the eyes that first fell 
upon him, as he lay, faintly panting out his just-begun 
life, on the hard, wet flagstones, that dreary morning. 


177 





i;8 


WAIF. 


He was ragged and dirty, with no beauty that man or 
woman should desire him. He had already closed his 
eyes, and taken his farewell of this tempestuous life, with 
a feeling, perhaps, that he was going away after the sun¬ 
shine and the stillness he so missed. 

He was tenderly taken up, dried, warmed, revived, and 
fed, for sweet charity’s sake; but for a long time he con¬ 
tinued very forlorn, unsteady on his legs, with a limp neck, 
helpless-looking wings, and a most discouragingly home¬ 
sick and dejected expression. The storm that'had so early 
burst upon him had evidently given him a distaste for an 
existence subject to such accidents and conditions. The 
whole air of the bird seemed to say, “ I have no heart to 
dip deeper into the tragic story, ‘ that roars so loud, and 
thunders in the index.’ ” 

The bird had not then the faintest prophecy of bright 
plumage. In his dilapidated suit of dull gray, the sad, sickly 
little stranger appealed to no sentiment but pity in the 
hearts of that kindly household. They tried faithfully to 
coax him back to happy, healthful life, to convince him 
that the same sun was shining that shone before the fall 
of his house, that the same airs were blowing that whis¬ 
pered among the leaves in the dear old tree, that there was 
a loving human providence for virtuous little birds, that 
“ looked at the heart, and not at the coat.” 


WAIF. 


79 


One of the young ladies possessed a beautiful canary, 
named Fremont ; to whom, by the way, she afterward gave 
a mate called Jessie, a faithful and valiant better-half. Jut, 
at this time, Monty dwelt by himself, spending much time 
in eating, and more in pluming his bright feathers ; much 
given to gay bursts of mal-apropos §ong, and retiring to 
his solitary perch at night in jolly unconsciousness of his 
forlorn bachelor condition. To this gallant fellow his mis¬ 
tress ventured to introduce our poor little Waif, hoping that 
so pleasant and advantageous an acquaintance might cheer 
his drooping spirits. But I am sorry to have to record 
that Monty, in the pride of his “ fine feathers,” in all the 
insolence of a royal favorite, showed the utmost contempt 
and jealous dislike for his humble visitor. After eying 
him for a moment with fiery scorn, he flew at that timid, 
half-naked creature, and gave him just the sort of dressing 
he neither desired nor deserved. When the little victim 
was rescued, he was half dead with fright, to say nothing 
of his wounds and bruises^ Then the radiant victor, look¬ 
ing like so much pure sunshine incarnated, mounted to his 
perch, and sang like a very cherub triumphant after a 
round with a small imp of darkness. 

From that time Waif stood in the most fearsome awe 
of Monty; who, for his part, profoundly despised Waif, 




i8o 


WAIF. 


even after that bird’s splendid transformation — but I am 
anticipating. 

One day Waifs cage was hung out of the window, in 
the hope that the sun and fresh morning air might revive 
him. But the fastening proved insecure: something gave 
way; and the pretty cage fell to the pavement, where it 
went to smash, after the manner of a railroad-train. From 
out of a little heap of ruins, poor Waif was dug, appar¬ 
ently lifeless. But he was only stunned. He soon revived, 
and, oddly enough, seemed far more lively and cheery than 
before. This accident, so nearly a fatal tragedy, seemed to 
have knocked all the melancholy nonsense out of him. He 
took more cheerful views of life, and actually from that 
day grew beautiful, putting forth the most lovely plumage. 
His head and neck were clothed in satin of exquisite azure; 
his coat, of like material, was of vivid, yet delicate green ; 
while his waistcoat, of old Continental length, was scarlet, 
shading into orange. His wings were green, faintly tinged 
with gold. His bran-new costmne but worthily set off a 
light little figure, indescribably dainty and graceful. The 
bird-fanciers now found a name for him: he was pro¬ 
nounced a “ nonpareil,” a songless though valuable bird, 
of native birth, but rare. 

No, he did not sing, he never sung precisely ; but he fre- 


WAIF. 


8 l 


quently indulged in a pleasant little twitter that certainly 
reminded one of singing. 

Waif seemed to enjoy the surprise and delight of his 
friends in his magical transformation. He was glad and 
proud, and appeared no longer to heed the airs of the arro¬ 
gant canary, who, from a neighboring cage, still derided 
and defied him in song, like an operatic hero. 

Toward his friends he 
was gratefully loving, 
showing in a thousand 
charming little ways, 
which only genuine bird- 
lovers can understand, his 
sense of their kindness in 
his early dubious days; 
saying plainly enough, in 
his wordless bird-language, “I was a stranger, and ye 
took me in." 

In the spring-time it was that Monty died. The “ hand¬ 
some tenor ” was not destined “ to lie in cold obstruction, 
and to rot; ” but a skilful anatomical preparation was made 
of him, and placed in a glass case, and he thus became an 
ornament of my lady’s chamber. Here each morning his 
fond mistress beholds him, perched in immovable stillness; 

16 












I 82 


WAIF. 


yet she almost listens for the sweet, triumphant song that 
has died away into eternal silence, or passed on. 

One day, for an experiment, Waif was taken up, and 
placed under the glass with his old enemy, whom he thus 
beheld “ in his habit as he lived.” At first Waif showed 
the most abject fear; but, after some moments had passed 
without bringing the expected hostile demonstrations, he 
seemed to suspect that something was up, and began to 
econnoitre more closely. Then, convinced that Monty 
was somehow hors de combat , he “ went for him ” most 
valiantly, resolved, doubtless, to exact indemnity for all old 
grievances to the last feather. He had to be withdrawn 
from the arena by force, still bristling all over with fight. 
There is a vast deal of human nature in these little crea¬ 
tures. 

Waifs first moulting was a very sad experience for him. 
He had taken such innocent delight in his beautiful plu¬ 
mage, the song that was doubtless in him seeming to break 
out so satisfactorily in this way, in tints instead of trills, 
that he was evidently quite discomfited by the change 
back into more than the old forlornness. He did not quite 
strike his brave colors ; but they were tattered and torn as 
by a sharp engagement, while his tail went utterly by the 
board. In this sorry plight he was evidently touched and 


WAIF. 


183 


flattered by the kindly notice of his friends. Whenever 
the general, in particular, took him in his hand, caressed 
him, and spoke to him lovingly and cheeringly, he would 
at once hold up his head with the air of a bird and a 
brother. He would, metaphorically speaking, put his 
thumbs in the arm-holes of his little ragged red waistcoat, 
and stand ready to face a well-dressed world. He knew 
that the hir'd was all right, whatever was the condition of 
its plumage ; yea, though it was not! He had all the inner 
consciousness of tail, and he liked to have the abstract 
being and birdhood of him respected. Soon he asserted 
himself for the most faithless and unbelieving, and was 
again resplendent in a “ coat of many colors.” 

Like Bob, Waif is often allowed the freedom of the din¬ 
ing-room. When there are stranger-guests, he eyes them 
curiously and shyly, walks round them, observing them 
critically (ah, if we could come at his estimates of charac¬ 
ter !), and, if he is satisfied, flies on to an extended hand, 
and establishes friendly relations at once. 

It is pleasant to see him light on the strong arm of the 
general, and, with his pretty head archly turned to one side, 
peer up into the face sometimes accounted proud and stern, 
with the most fearless faith and jolly good-fellowship. He 
seems to have divined the tenderness that always underlies 


) 


WAIF. 


184 

true manliness and courage. Not intellect and culture, not 
systems of philosophy and science, not even stormy memo¬ 
ries of battle, make a gulf across which those daring little 
wings may not pass. The bird-life has also its mysteries 
and memories, which the larger life is bound to respect. 
When that strong hand, which is his providence, closes 
about him, he lies still, without a flutter of apprehension 
for his present safety or future salvation. 

Thus our little friend lives his happy, harmless life from 
day to day, in unconscious harmony with great eternal law, 
his loving instinct blending in fearless companionship with 
our intellect and reason. He pits his feebleness against 
our strength, and has no doubt but that we will reverence 
it, as his peculiar dower from the good God. Innocent 
prodigal of time, he spends his golden hours, and never 
questions whither the swift days are bearing him. He 
tucks his head under his wing at night, with no sad 
thoughts of duties forgotten, or of work half done. Re¬ 
morse haunts not his perch. His life is content: it is 
happiness ; it is peace. He is perhaps happier, and surely 
humbler, than if he knew that his plumage was iridescent 
with the loveliest colors that streak the morning sky, that 
his small breast was palpitating with tiny wavelets of the 
great life of life. He does not trouble his little head, I 


WAIF. 


I8 5 

think, about his moral responsibilities, or his mission here. 
His mission is to be the little joy-spirit, and the little care, 
of a human household, to bring smiles to thought-worn 
faces, and pleasant gleams to eyes acquainted well with 
tears ; and he performs this all the better, perhaps, for 
being utterly unconscious that he has any mission at all. 

“ Be not forgetful to entertain strangers (great and 
small), for thereby some have entertained angels (and non¬ 
pareils) unawares.” 





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THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 

IVANHOE, by Sir Walter Scott, 

THE SCOTTISH CHIEFS, 

THADDEUS OF WARSAW, 

TREASURES FROM FAIRY LAND, 
ROBINSON CRUSOE, 

ARABIAN NIGHTS, 

GULLIVER’S TRAVELS, 

SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON, 
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